Gia Santella Crime Thriller Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (Gia Santella Crime Thrillers)

by Kristi Belcamino

  I grabbed Bobby’s hand, clutching it as a lifeline. The woman and young man exchanged a look. Then I was alone. The two kneeled by another woman, this one alive. I recognized her as another senator. Streaks of black ran down her face. She tried to brush the emergency workers away, but they insisted on treating her.

  Shifting, I searched for Dante’s black head. He was crouched by Matt’s body. His face distorted, his mouth crumpled. When he noticed me, he looked at Bobby. I shook my head so slowly it felt like it took an eternity. That’s when I noticed Dante was holding onto Matt’s hand. Matt’s fingers were closed around Dante’s hand. Matt was alive.

  A racket at the door was followed by people carting gurneys into the courtyard. I never took my eyes off Dante. Within seconds, Matt was loaded onto one of the gurneys.

  I lay back down, curling my body around Bobby until a man in a dark suit lifted me in his arms and set me off to the side. I’d lost the ability to fight. My limbs were weak, useless. I watched in horror as the man spread a sheet over Bobby. But then my ability to move returned and I leaned over and yanked the sheet off Bobby. I wadded it up in a ball and hurled it into the nearby fountain. When the man in the suit tried to approach again, I crossed my arms and glared, standing spread eagle in front of Bobby. He would have to get past me.

  I stood on guard for what felt like a century until a police officer came and tried to make me move. I shoved him so hard he fell back onto the ground. He looked at me wide-eyed and left. But was back within seconds with reinforcements. It took four police officers to carry me out of the courtyard. I kicked and spit and scratched at them, craning my neck to catch one last glimpse of Bobby before they put the sheet back on him and dragged me outside.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “TAKE ME TO THE HOSPITAL.” I was in the back of a small police car. The two officers in the front exchanged looks. “Now!” I screamed, spittle flying, landing on the plastic barrier between us.

  They’d locked me in. One of the officers had handed me a gray sweatshirt. At first, I’d ignored it, but then grudgingly pulled it on over my thin dress.

  When the man in the black suit pushed a gurney with a black shrouded figure out to a hearse, I’d pounded on the windows with my fists until they were bloody and screamed until I was hoarse. But then, the same man came out with three other bodies. They fit four bodies in two hearses. I didn’t know which one was Bobby’s and this seemed unbearable. I clawed at the door handles and kicked at the seats in front of me, screaming and crying until the two hearses had left and I was exhausted, huddled in the corner. I glared at the officers in the front seat. They had studiously ignored me the entire time.

  Now I leaned forward and repeated my demand.

  “Take. Me. To. The. Hospital. Ospedale! Ospedale! Now!”

  To my surprise, the ignition turned over and we drove away.

  At the hospital, the officer in the passenger seat got out and opened my door as if he were a fucking valet. I was too drained to do anything but glare at him as I hopped out and raced through the hospital doors.

  “AMERICANO! AMERICANO!” I shouted as I raced in. The nurses and doctors barely gave me a glance. I pounded my fists on the counter. “Dov'è l'americano?”

  The nurse rolled her eyes at me and I nearly punched her, but she typed on her keyboard and said some number I didn’t understand. When she saw my face, she acted exasperated but held up her fingers. Two. And pointed up.

  Second floor. I raced to the elevators but then saw a stairway and tore up that instead. When I entered the hall, Mrs. Marino was standing there, clutching her handbag with both hands, eyes red from weeping. Her Herringbone suit jacket still looked pristine. I fell into her arms.

  “Gia!” She sobbed into my neck. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, mia cara.”

  I want to die. But I didn’t say it out loud. In less than seventy-two hours, the man I loved had been murdered and I’d watched two women die looking at me. And now, another close friend might die, too.

  We headed for a small alcove with couches and chairs. Mrs. Marino patted my arm and my back. “Matt’s hurt really badly,” she said. “He’s in surgery right now.”

  We collapsed on a couch, hugging. I closed my eyes, my body and mind numb until I heard Dante’s voice and opened my eyes. My best friend’s face was slack, yellow, horrified. Matt was in recovery. They didn’t know if he would make it.

  “Gia, they don’t know,” he said woodenly. “They said I should probably stay close in case he took a turn for the worst.” He finally sobbed saying the last part. “Oh, my God.”

  I stood and hugged him. Then we all sat back down.

  “Who did this?” His voice was hollow. “That guy. That man in D.C.? He said he hoped Matt rotted in hell. Do you think he did this? But I saw more than one person?”

  He sounded like a little boy who was confused.

  My mouth was so dry I didn’t know if I could form words, but I swallowed and told him what I had seen from the balcony.

  The bikers. The woman in black. They had done this.

  Mrs. Marino had been sitting quietly the whole time, but then she spoke, spiting the words out. “They were Italian. I couldn’t hear them, but they said something and it was Italian.”

  “But why?” I said. “Why would they kill Bobby or Matt? Why, Dante? Why?”

  Dante shook his head. His eyes looked haunted. “It had to be over the health care plan. It had to be that.”

  But I doubted that. Not with what I had seen.

  “Go, be with Matt,” I said. “I’ll stay here with your mom. We’ll be fine.”

  He left and we sat there on the vinyl couch, me holding her hand, her head leaning on my shoulder, until she fell asleep and I closed my own eyes.

  Sunlight blazing through the windows woke me. I blinked and lifted a hand to shield my eyes. My first conscious thought was that my head and neck and legs hurt. The second was that Bobby was dead.

  Mrs. Marino was slumped in the corner of the couch sleeping. Someone had put scratchy blankets over us. I unfolded myself from the couch and put my blanket on her. I didn’t want to leave her alone, but I needed to find a bathroom and then Dante.

  A nurse gave me a glance as I stood. I pointed toward Mrs. Marino. “Can you tell her I’ll be back soon?”

  “Yes.” The woman spoke English. A small mercy. She pointed me toward a bathroom and then told me what room Matt was in.

  I stood in the doorway of Matt’s room, feeling numb.

  Dante had pulled a chair up to the bed and had his dark head resting near Matt’s shoulder. His mouth was open as he slept. Matt had more tubes coming out of him and was surrounded by more machines than I’d ever seen. My stomach dropped. It didn’t look good.

  I pulled up the other chair by Dante’s. He stirred at the noise of the slight scraping and lifted his head abruptly. “What?”

  His eyes focused on Matt and he let out a sob. I touched his arm. He swiveled his head, looking confused to see me beside him.

  “Is he conscious?” I asked, looking at Matt.

  He shook his head sadly.

  “Oh no.” I felt like I’d never said words so ineffectual. Had never uttered such an understatement.

  Dante glanced at me. “I’m sorry about Bobby. I never said that last night. I was so concerned with telling you about Matt, I didn’t say anything. I’m sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry about Bobby.” His voice choked on a sob.

  All I could do was nod. I had no words. And I had no tears. I was numb.

  Mrs. Marino rushed into the room. When I looked up, I saw two police officers standing in the doorway flanking her.

  “Ms. Santella? Mr. Marino?”

  They wanted the three of us to go to the police station so we could provide information about the shooting for the investigation.

  “I can’t leave,” Dante was distraught. “Can you talk to me here? Please. Please?” He was begging.

  “Yes.”

  “I can go with you. I’ll wai
t in the hall,” I said without emotion.

  Mrs. Marino and I left, sitting in hard backed chairs against the wall outside the door. I could hear the low murmur of a police officer questioning Dante, but couldn’t make out anything they were saying.

  Finally, they came out. We hugged Dante goodbye. I gave Matt once last glance, feeling my throat close up as I took in his pale, motionless form.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE INSPECTOR LOOKED frazzled when we walked into his office. He was younger and more attractive than I’d expected. I’d imagined some gray haired paunchy guy with a droopy mustache. Instead he had short hair, a trim goatee, and wire-framed glasses.

  His desk was piled with papers that he was shuffling around. He acted as if we were an irritation. The police officers who had escorted us in said something in Italian and then closed the door behind us.

  He stood, came around and shook our hands and then gestured for us to sit. I hoped he spoke English because otherwise this was a colossal waste of time.

  “I’m Inspector Brossard. Mrs. Marino? Ms. Santella? Thank you for agreeing to come in.”

  We nodded. He jutted his chin at me. “I’m very sorry about your loss.”

  I pressed my lips together, afraid to speak, but gave a slight nod.

  For the next hour, we both gave our accounts of the shooting. Inspector Brossard seemed interested that we had both been in different locations during the shooting. Since Mrs. Marino had been in the courtyard, he wanted to hear what she said first.

  I listened intently when Mrs. Marino described what she had seen.

  They had just brought out the food on the buffet table when she heard popping noises.

  “I thought someone was popping balloons. Like little children,” she said. Her voice was wobbly. The shooting had seemingly aged her twenty years.

  “But then Matt fell. didn’t see much after that because Dante threw me to the ground and stayed on top of me until, until they were gone.”

  The inspector asked her to further describe the positions of the three of them. She and Dante had basically fallen behind Matt’s body. Matt had shielded them.

  “Did you see anything at all that could identify these people with the guns?” He looked over his glasses as he spoke.

  I noticed how carefully he had worded that. Had she seen the murderers, is what I wanted to scream, but my mouth stayed firmly shut.

  “No,” she sobbed as if everything depended on her answer. “No. No, I’m sorry I didn’t. But I thought I heard them speaking Italian.”

  The inspector looked skeptical.

  “Something happened last week in Washington, D.C.,” I said. I told him about the man wanting Matt dead and the opposition to the health care plan.

  Then I told him what I had seen from the balcony. He’d been looking down at his notepad, taking notes, but as soon as I mentioned seeing the woman, his pen froze in mid-air. He’d been less interested in my description of the bikers, but the woman had given him pause.

  He looked up. “Can you describe her further?”

  “Not really. She had long hair. She wore black. She seemed, I don’t know, voluptuous. Her clothing was very formfitting and showed her curves.” It felt stupid describing her this way, but I wanted to be as accurate as possible.

  When I finished speaking, I waited for him to look at me again. “Do you think she did it? Who is she? Why?”

  He didn’t answer, just stared at me for a few seconds, locking eyes with me. I finally had to look away. Then, to my surprise, he answered. “No, I don’t think she did it.”

  I looked up, astonished. “What?” I was confused.

  “Could I please have your phone numbers and hotels?”

  Mrs. Marino rattled off her information while I stared at him. He looked my way. I dug into my bag. I dumped out my pile of my travel documents, searching for the address of the villa. My papers splayed across his desk. Then I found a slip of paper with what I needed and scribbled down the address of the villa and my cell number. I pushed it his way, but he seemed not to see it. His face had grown white. He was staring at a piece of paper with my writing on it. It contained information about my mother’s villa in Sicily. An address and her name and some other contact names and phone numbers. Bobby and I had planned to visit the villa my mother owned on Tuesday. The realization that Bobby was dead struck me like a punch to the gut. A sob rose to my throat and I gasped.

  The inspector looked up at me, startled.

  “Sorry. It’s just—” I burst into tears before I could finish my sentence. Mrs. Marino dabbed at my tears and rubbed my back, speaking soothing words in my ear. “Poor baby. My love. Now. Now. My love.”

  When I looked up, Inspector Brossard was intently writing something in his notes, hiding his writing with the palm of his other hand and still looking at the piece of paper with my mother’s information. He looked at me with hooded eyes. I opened my eyes wide and snatched the piece of paper off the desk, shoving it into my bag with my other belongings.

  “Were you planning on leaving the Amalfi coast anytime soon?” He asked casually.

  Was that what this was all about? I was suspicious that he was writing down the villa address in case he needed to come arrest me for murdering my own goddamn boyfriend. I stood so abruptly my chair tipped over backward.

  “Are we done here, Inspector?”

  “Mrs. Santella, I need to know if you plan to leave the area.”

  “It’s miss. And yes I plan to leave the area. I don’t fucking live here, do I? I plan on going back home to California, Inspector Brossard.” I shot a glance at Mrs. Marino hoping I didn’t offend her with my language, but she just patted my arm, reassuringly.

  He shuffled papers and stood, fingering his goatee as if he were already thinking of something else. Maybe lunch. “Thank you for your time.” He opened his office door. Mrs. Marino walked out, but I stayed put. When I realized he wouldn’t look at me and wasn’t going to budge until I left, I stood. He stood then and walked me to the office door.

  At the door, I paused, getting right in his face.

  “I don’t appreciate being treated like a suspect when the man I loved was just murdered.” I hissed the words in a low voice.

  “You are not being treated like a suspect.” His voice was calm and matter-of-fact. His English crisp. No accent apparent.

  I spluttered for a second and then said, “It doesn’t seem like you are taking this very seriously. You are treating me suspiciously and then you rule out, discount, what I saw.” Anger surged through me and I couldn’t stop. “And you didn’t seem very interested that Matt had been threatened in Washington, D.C. Who else died last night? Any politicians? On which side of the health care plan? I think you need to bring in the FBI or CIA or something. You guys need to figure out who the fuck killed my boyfriend! And you are dismissing what is probably your best lead. I saw a woman acting strange and then fleeing the scene. And by the way, did you question the woman on the other balcony next to mine? She might have seen the same thing.”

  Finally, I ran out of breath and stood there panting.

  He stayed silent, his lips pressed tightly together. His eyes expressionless.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, raising my voice. “How can you say you don’t think she did it?”

  “Arrivederci.” He stepped inside his office, closing the door behind him. I tried the handle. It was locked. For a second I stared at the door, hands balled into fists that wanted to pound the door. Looking down and seeing my already scabbed-over knuckles from pounding the glass in the back of the squad car, I turned and sank into Mrs. Marino’s waiting arms.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE FUNERAL HOME LOOKED like a regular house. There was nothing to indicate it was a mortuary except a small wooden sign hanging from a chain out front.

  Mrs. Marino patted my knee. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

  “No. Go on to the hospital.” I handed the cab driver a wad of euros bef
ore I got out. “I’ll meet you there. Please call me if there is any news. If Matt wakes up.” Or dies.

  I pushed back the thought. I waited until the cab turned the corner. I squared my shoulders, facing the funeral home door. Closing my eyes, I counted to ten. My feet were stuck into the pavement. Move, Santella. Move. You owe him this.

  With that thought, I opened the door.

  The inside wasn’t dark and gloomy like I thought. Instead, I’d stepped into a formal living room with chintzy, flowered upholstered couches and glossy, polished coffee and end tables. An older woman in an ankle-length dress and gray hair that fell chicly to her shoulders came and took my hands in hers. Her face was caring and concerned. The emotionless cold-hearted suited man who had taken Bobby’s body wasn’t around. Thank God.

  “I’m here for Bobby Kostas.”

  “Si.” She turned and said something, called someone. A young woman came out. She was about my age with a severe bun, warm eyes, chic flowing palazzo pants, and a tank top.

  “My name is Monica. I’m Ms. Ferrino’s daughter. Her English isn’t as fluent as she would like so she would like me to help you. I apologize. I hope that will be sufficient for you.”

  In a daze, I nodded.

  “This way.” She led me into a small office with dark furniture.

  “Mr. Kostas is your husband?”

  I shook my head. “My boyfriend.”

  Saying the word made tears shoot out of my eyes. I didn’t apologize and she didn’t say anything, just pushed a tissue box my way. I wiped my tears and blew my nose loudly. She waited patiently until I was done.

  “Can you put us in touch with his next of kin?” She said. “Unfortunately, we need their permission to proceed.”

  His parents. I had to tell his parents he was dead. Another burst of tears. This time I gained control sooner. “Okay. I have to tell them. It’s all been so sudden.”