Natalie's Dilemma: a Frank Renzi crime thriller (Frank Renzi novels Book 7)

by Susan Fleet

  “What did you do today?” he asked, smiling mischievously, seducing her with his dark sexy eyes. “Anything exciting? Or were you lying in your sickbed, fighting off your migraine?”

  “I slept late and spent the rest of the day cleaning the apartment and doing laundry.” So she could pack the rest of her clothes, close her bank account on Monday and leave town.

  “I'm so happy to see you.” He leaned closer and kissed her cheek. “You don't usually brush me off like you did last night.”

  Her antenna went up. A provocative statement. Should she ignore it? Act annoyed? No. She couldn't afford to arouse his suspicions now.

  She caressed his hand. “Don't be silly, Giancarlo. I didn't brush you off. I wasn't feeling well.”

  “No time for dinner tonight,” he grumbled. “What is this work you have to do?”

  “Homework for my child development course,” she lied. “For my job. To help me understand the children better.”

  He drank some wine, puffed his cigarette and set it in the ashtray. “A terrible thing, that shooting at the Guggenheim. It's all over the TV.”

  As if she didn't know. After watching the morning news, she'd gone out and bought Il Gazzetino and La Nuova Venizia. Both newspapers had run photos on the front page: carabiniere officers with rifles, crime scene tape across the doors of the museum. The articles told of a young family decimated, the mother shot dead, her husband comatose in the hospital, their five-year-old daughter kidnapped. Not to mention a dead museum guard and innocent bystanders wounded.

  She didn't want to talk about it, but that might seem odd. Everyone else was talking about it. Why wouldn't she?

  At last she said, “These gangsters are ruthless.”

  Giancarlo made his eyes go wide. “You have experience with gangsters?” he said, teasing her.

  Or so he thought. He had no idea what her life had been like, dancing as a stripper in New York, working as a high-paid escort in Paris and London. If she told him, he'd be shocked out of his mind.

  Not that she would ever tell him. If only she could. She had no family, no girlfriends to confide in.

  “From what I hear,” he said, “the body count would have been worse if it had happened earlier. Most of the visitors had left the museum. There's a special exhibit there. Have you seen it?”

  Her stomach clenched in a hard knot. Why was he asking all these questions? She raised her wineglass and pretended to take a sip.

  “Not yet. I haven't had time.”

  “A colleague of mine saw it last week. He said it's fabulous, famous paintings by French Impressionists. The museum is closed tomorrow, but it reopens on Monday. Let's go see it. I'll get off work early.”

  Her palms grew sweaty. Another invitation, one she couldn't possibly accept. With her most seductive smile, she said, “I'd love to, Giancarlo, but not on Monday. I have to work late.”

  He snubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and gazed at her, his mouth set in a line. “Are you trying to dump me, Laura?”

  Shocked, she stared at him. She had expected annoyance, even anger. Not this. Feigning dismay, she said, “Giancarlo! How can you say that?”

  She was about to say more but caught herself. Protest too much and he won't believe you.

  He gazed at her, his dark eyes smoldering with anger. “Last night I ask you out for a drink and you plead headache. Today I invite you out for dinner, but you say you have work to do. Now I invite you to see a fantastic art exhibit on Monday, and you're too busy. Three strikes and you're out. Isn't that what you Americans say?”

  “Nonsense, Giancarlo. You've been watching too many movies. You're so sweet to invite me. Let's go on Tuesday. All my work will be done, and I can enjoy my time with you at the museum.” Gazing into his eyes, she caressed his cheek. “And at my apartment afterwards.”

  His expression softened. “I like the sound of that, Laura. What time shall I pick you up?”

  CHAPTER 5

  SATURDAY 5:25 PM – Venice

  Cursing under his breath, Cesare Valenti leaned over the porch railing at the rear of the cottage, smoking a cigarette. Merda! They were paying the woman a small fortune, but she would only allow them use her home if they promised not to smoke inside. In the front room, two of his carabiniere officers were monitoring the house across the road with surveillance equipment. The 'Netti brothers were hiding there, Orazio and Tomasso, Tomasso's wife and Bianca Ruffino, a defenseless five-year-old girl whose mother was dead and whose comatose father might die at any moment.

  Valenti spewed cigarette smoke into the chill air. His most ruthless interrogator had persuaded a low-level member of the Antonetti gang to reveal the location of their hideout. He didn't ask how his officer had obtained this information. He didn't want to know about such unpleasantness, which undoubtedly involved pain and suffering, screams and quantities of blood.

  His thoughts turned to the Ruffino maid. Another aggravation. When he told Fatima Amato what happened to her employers, she became hysterical, ten minutes of unrelenting shrieks. Then she screamed, “It's all my fault!” And told him what she had seen when she returned to the Ruffino home from la groceria. But did she call the polizia? No! She went inside, put away the groceries and waited for Sofia to return. But her description of the couple who spirited Sophia and Bianca away in a dark SUV had been helpful. A dark-haired man in a fine-looking suit, Gucci, Fatima believed. A woman with long blonde hair in a fancy blue outfit, who painted her face like a trollop, Fatima had sneered.

  Cesare drew deeply on his cigarette. For years he had been trying to put the 'Netti brothers in jail. The younger one, Tomasso, was married to a twenty-two-year-old woman with long blonde hair. Catarina dressed like a fashion model in expensive outfits and wore heavy makeup.

  Footsteps sounded behind him. “Sir, come quickly. They are talking about the girl!”

  He tossed his cigarette on the ground and hurried to the parlor. Two of his officers sat in front of the electronic equipment: video cameras and tape-recorders hooked up to loudspeakers. Powerful microphones were aimed at the windows of the house across the street.

  One of his men turned up the volume on the speakers. Two voices, a man and a woman, arguing.

  “I can't take care of the girl by myself, Tommy. I need help!”

  “We should have killed her. She's a stone in our shoe.”

  “Mother of God, you're so cold. You'll go to hell.”

  “We can't take her to New York with us.”

  “Why not? She doesn't speak English. She's so terrified, she won't open her mouth.”

  “Plane fares are expensive. Leave her here.”

  “No! Your brother will have his men kill her!”

  “Calm down, Catarina. Don't be foolish.”

  “What about your niece? She speaks English. She would love to go to New York City!”

  “Absolutely not! Find someone who doesn't know us. A nanny who speaks English.”

  “Where do I find someone like that around here?”

  “Catarina, you give me the mother of all headaches.”

  Through the speakers, Cesare heard a door slam. Then silence.

  “Good work,” he said to his men. “But this talk of killing the girl worries me.”

  He massaged his forehead. If the 'Netti brothers killed the girl and the press found out he knew where they were and didn't arrest them immediately, his reputation would be ruined. But in his mind, the safety of Bianca Ruffino was paramount.

  A voice called from the kitchen. “Cesare, are you here?”

  Merda! Another aggravation. “Just a moment,” he called.

  When he entered the kitchen John Conti was waiting for him. To prevent the 'Netti gang from detecting their surveillance, anyone coming to the cottage parked on the next street over and walked through the woods behind the cottage.

  “Have you obtained any information?” Conti asked.

  Stone-faced, Cesare regarded the Europol agent, dressed in a tailored suit that probabl
y cost the earth, his hair styled in what passed for fashion these days, curly locks falling over his forehead, thick dark hair falling to his collar in back.

  “We believe they intend to fly to New York City,” Cesare said. “To fence the jewelry perhaps.”

  “To deliver stolen diamonds to their boss is more likely. According to our information, the capo di tutti capi lives in America.”

  Seething with fury, Cesare said nothing. Earlier, the Vice Comandante Generale dell-Arma had informed him that Europol Agent John Conti was now in charge of the case. And how could Cesare Valenti argue with a man with three stars on his uniform? His had only one.

  But the fact that this insufferable man could exert power over him filled him with rage. Conti cared nothing for the girl. He had bigger fish to fry. The Mafia and their criminal activities had bedeviled northern Italy for many years. Conti and his Europol boss wanted to crush them. To be sure, there were rumors, faint whispers here and there, that the man who ruled the Antonetti Family lived in America. But not his name or where he lived. Still, Cesare knew for a fact that Orazio, the older brother, flew to the United States from time to time.

  “I am worried about the girl,” he said. “Tomasso spoke of killing her, but his wife wouldn't have it. At least someone in that house has a shred of humanity. Catarina wants to take Bianca with them to New York, but she wants to hire a nanny to take care of her.”

  Conti looked at him sharply. “A nanny? Interesting. Perhaps we can get them to hire my target. Then Natalie can feed us information.”

  “Natalie is this Vietnamese woman you spoke of?”

  “Yes. She would make an excellent nanny. Her job involves working with children. She speaks fluent English and French, and decent Italian, and she lived in America for a time.”

  Outraged, he said, “You want to let these murderers fly to America? Not if I have a say in it. The only reason I did not arrest them already is because they have Bianca. Her safety is my priority.”

  Conti looked at him, his dark eyes as cold and hard as granite. “You want to arrest the 'Netti brothers. We want their boss, this American capo di tutti capi. If we arrest him, we will destroy this Mafia gang, not just in Venice, in America as well.”

  Cesare clenched his jaw to keep from screaming. This self-important ass didn't care about obtaining justice for Sophia and Dominic Ruffino, or the safety of their young daughter. “How will you persuade this woman to do this?”

  “Don't worry. I have plenty of crimes to hold over her, several murders in fact.”

  “She's a killer?” Cesare fingered his mustache. Conti wanted a killer to take care of Bianca? “How can we trust her?”

  Conti smiled, but his eyes were cold. “I will be her minder every step of the way. She will do what she is told. Or else.” He checked his watch. “I must return to my hotel and prepare my plan. Call me immediately when you learn the date and time they depart for New York City.”

  Cesare watched him leave the cottage and jog into the woods. The Europol agent believed he had everything under control. But Cesare Valenti had a few cards up his sleeve.

  He returned to the parlor and spoke to his officers. “I will sleep here tonight. This talk of killing the child disturbs me. I have assembled an elite team of military officers armed with stun grenades and assault rifles. They await my orders in an armored vehicle one kilometer from here. If you hear any more talk of killing Bianca, tell me immediately, even if I am asleep. I will have them mount an assault on the house and rescue the girl.”

  “Yes, sir. Any talk of harming the girl, you will know instantly.”

  “Hold these details close to your chest,” he said sternly. “No need to tell the Europol agent.”

  His officer smiled faintly. “Of course, Generale. That is understood.”

  He returned to the porch, pulling out a cigarette with one hand, his cellphone with the other.

  Elana was expecting him for dinner. She would not be pleased to learn that he was sleeping here tonight, but he would make it up to her, take her to Paris for a weekend after this nasty business was finished.

  Europol Agent John Conti could sleep in comfort at a fancy hotel. Generale di Brigata Cesare Valenti would remain on duty and protect Bianca Ruffino. If Orazio Antonetti harmed a hair on her head, Cesare Valenti would personally arrange for this ruthless mafioso to go to an early grave.

  _____

  11:30 PM New Orleans

  Kelly took a slice of apple pie out of the microwave and said, “Want ice cream on it?”

  “No, but I'll take a beer,” Frank said, admiring her curvy figure. She had on a blue T-shirt and a pair of cut-off jeans now, but her Glock was on the table. Wearing casual clothes, but keeping her weapon handy.

  His SIG was inches away from his right hand. Working the mean streets of New Orleans, he seldom left home without it. Two cops, armed and dangerous. A gun was an intimate thing, like a lover almost. Either it fit or it didn't. Most of the time he and Kelly were a good fit. But she had a temper. He didn't want her out hunting for King Rock, also armed and twice as dangerous.

  She brought the pie and two Heinekens to the table and sat down opposite him. “Great combination,” she said. “Apple pie and beer.”

  “And my pistol-packing girlfriend,” he said, nodding at the Glock.

  “Damn right. If I see King Rock, I'll shoot him, ask questions later.”

  He swigged some beer and forked up a bite of apple pie. He knew she wasn't joking. No storm clouds yet on her olive-skinned face, framed by a fringe of short dark hair. But her eyes told the story, sea-green and seductive when she wanted them to be. Hard as agates now.

  “Great pie,” he said. “Juicy and lots of cinnamon.”

  “I got it at Whole Foods. Expensive, but worth it.”

  “Why not? You've been working your ass off.” The physical strain on her was bad enough—no sleep, getting Jacques settled—but the emotional toll was worse. A client had called her and wound up dead.

  Kelly shrugged. “You are, too. Did you eat anything?”

  “Coffee and crap mostly. David and I had takeout sandwiches a while ago.” He set the plate aside and drank some beer. “How's Jacques?”

  “So traumatized he won't talk. Three years old and he sees his father shoot his mother.”

  “You tried to get her to leave him, but she wouldn't.”

  “She was afraid of him! Afraid of what he'd do if she ditched him.”

  He took her hands in his and looked into her eyes, glazed with tears now. “It wasn't your fault, Kelly. You did the best you could.”

  She set her jaw and pulled her hands away. “Not this time.”

  “What did her mother say when you told her?”

  “She didn't shed a tear. Looks me in the eye and says—quote—'I haven't seen Angelique since she took up with the no-good thug that got her pregnant.' When I asked if she'd be willing to take Jacques, she said she's never seen the kid and wants nothing to do with him.”

  “Man, that's cold. Her own grandson?”

  “Right,” Kelly said, her eyes blazing fury. “But she gave me her mother's name and phone number. Angelique's grandmother. She was at work when I called. She broke down and cried when I told her about Angelique. She loves Jacques, and she's worried about him. I'm going to see her tomorrow.”

  Frank yawned and glanced at the clock. Almost midnight. He needed sleep, but he wanted to tell her about Rocket Man. “David and I interviewed the other shooter.”

  Kelly perked up a bit, clearly pleased. “Great! Who is he?”

  “Jawon 'Rocket Man' Taylor, age 19, no outstanding warrants, one conviction as a juvenile, got busted for purse-snatching. At first he wouldn't talk, but I leaned on him. He said King Rock might be hiding out with his cousin in Bay St. Louis, Mississippi.”

  “King Rock, bullshit! He's no king, he's a maggot that crawled out from under a rock.”

  Frank grinned. “Now you sound like Vobitch.”

  Kelly drained the
last of her beer. “Morgan's a good guy, always treated me right when I worked for him. I think I'll ask him to let me transfer back into Homicide. So I can find the no-good prick that murdered Angelique.”

  Stunned, he said nothing. Vobitch knew they were involved and was willing to look the other way as long as Kelly worked in a different unit. She was a great detective, but both of them working Homicide would cause problems.

  “He might not go for it,” Frank said. “You're too emotionally involved.”

  The moment the words left his mouth, he knew it was a mistake.

  Anger flared in her eyes. “I'm too emotionally involved? What about you, Frank? What about Natalie Brixton? You're obsessed with her.”

  He bit his tongue and said nothing. Rafe Hawkins, his best friend when he worked for Boston PD, thought he was obsessed with her, too.

  Last week when he was in Boston, Rafe had asked if he was still hunting for Natalie, which elicited his usual response. “Yes, and I'm going to find her.”

  “Where d'you think she is?”

  “I have no idea. Could be in Europe, could be in Mexico or South America for all I know.”

  “You think that CIA agent, Clint Hammer, is still looking for her?”

  Hammer was just as obsessed with Natalie as Frank was. “I don't know, but he's got more resources than I do, and if he finds her he'll kill her.”

  Rafe had told him to forget Natalie and get on with his life.

  Like hell. He still checked the Interpol website once a week looking for any trace of her.

  “Admit it,” Kelly said. “You're still hunting her. You told me Hank's widow thanked you for helping him go out in a blaze of glory. You solved the Gardner heist, captured Natalie and returned the stolen art.”

  He said nothing, recalling the memorial service, a moving tribute sprinkled with laughter and more than a few tears. Diagnosed with advanced bile cancer, Hank had taken early retirement and moved to California with his wife to be closer their two daughters and grand-kids. Frank was glad they'd had a few months together.