by Joanne Pence
The young woman blanched. “I’m sorry, but Miss Woring is out of the office? We don’t expect her back today?”
Paavo was initially taken aback by her questions, then realized the woman had one of those irritating styles of speech where every sentence ended with her voice lilting upward.
“Exactly what does that mean?” he asked.
“It means her mother’s sick? Or she is?”
“Is she?” Her questioning tone was confusing.
“I guess?”
“When will she be back?”
“I’m not sure she said?”
“Is she home?”
“Probably?”
The receptionist was beyond irritating. “Miss, uh—”
“Ashley?”
“That’s as good a guess as any,” he muttered.
“Pardon?”
He was gritting his teeth. “Ashley, I need to talk to Miss Woring immediately. I want her home phone number and address right now.”
Her mouth moved open and shut like a fish, then she brightened. “I can call her for you and she can tell you?”
“Fine,” he said.
Ashley studied the telephone, then hit a button on speed dial. The bored look she wore quickly changed as the phone went directly to messaging. “I don’t get it? She never turns off her cell phone?”
“What’s her address?” Paavo demanded.
The receptionist was probably trained not to give out such information, but seeing the look on his face, she did.
Paavo, Yosh, and Charles went to the small but exclusive house Meredith Woring lived in. A Mercedes was in the driveway and the lights were on, but no one answered the doorbell or when they knocked.
The front door had a slot for the mail, and Paavo peeked inside.
Several days worth of mail was strewn on the floor.
He and Yosh went around to the back of the house, followed by Charles. The back door was much thinner than the one in the front. With a couple of hard whacks from Yosh’s shoulder, it sprang open.
“Ms. Woring?” Paavo called. “Are you here?”
They followed the muted sounds, Paavo and Yosh covering each other while Charles cowered anxiously by the door.
The television in the den was on.
Guns drawn, they slowly headed toward it.
Meredith Woring sat in front of the television set, but she wasn’t watching. She’d never watch anything again.
A bullet had drilled through the creamy smooth skin of her forehead.
Chapter 38
Angie crawled over the seat of the Panda. It was the tiniest car she’d ever been in, and that included bumper cars at amusement parks.
After several tries she managed to shove the stick shift into reverse. She slowly lifted her left foot off the clutch as her right gave it some gas. The car lurched and died. She had learned how to drive a manual transmission on Paavo’s ancient Austin Healey, the car he’d struggled with until she bought him a Corvette. She should have practiced more.
If she couldn’t get away from the police car fast, she might be arrested.
Again she tried to get the tiny auto to move in reverse. Once more the car died.
At this rate, leaving on foot would be faster.
The front bumper of the Panda had somehow gotten wedged under that of the police car. That required strength and power.
She gave a lot more gas and raised the clutch slowly. The engine revved louder and louder. Suddenly, the bumper sprang loose, falling to the ground with a clatter. The clutch engaged and the car, free now, shot backward at Mach 5 speed, throwing her hard against the steering wheel. It zipped away from the police car, raced right across the narrow roadway, bounded up onto the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, knocked over a trash barrel, and died.
Then the back bumper fell off.
Oncoming cars honked and slammed on brakes.
Angie stripped the gears as she hunted for first. Eventually the little Fiat began to jerk and shimmy in a forward direction. Somehow she got it off the sidewalk and onto the middle of the street, where it died again.
People opened windows and shouted, disturbed by the sound of car horns and flying garbage. With cars blocked on both sides of the street, drivers gesticulated furiously and obscenely. The traditional American “one-fingered salute” was mild compared to the whole arm gestures Angie witnessed. Finally, head high, she engaged the gear and putt-putted away.
She thought driving in San Francisco was difficult with the hills, cable cars, tourists, and crazed Muni bus drivers, but it was child’s play compared to the terrors of Rome’s traffic.
Travel lanes were ignored, speed limits considered foolish suggestions. Cars cut in and out in front of her with only a hair’s breadth separating them. The only bit of traffic control anyone paid attention to were lights, but sitting at a red light reminded Angie of Nascar: “Drivers, start your engines.” Engines revved and Angie knew that if she didn’t burst from the gate at the first flicker of green, she’d be rear-ended, run over, and possibly the featherweight Fiat would be picked up and tossed into the nearest junk heap.
She was sure her hair would be completely white before she ever saw her sister again.
She had to find the road to Ostia and then the church. Fortunately, she was familiar with Rome’s geography, more or less.
When she saw the church, she drove as close as she could to it, then parked. She took deep, quivering breaths before nearly crawling to the caretaker’s cottage.
Father Daniel was lying on the sofa, his head on the armrest on one side, his feet up on the other. An ice pack sat atop his head. “Angie,” he said hoarsely.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He nodded, then winced.
“You’re back.” Cat was making a pot of tea. “I was wondering how we were ever going to find you.”
Angie stared at her sister. What kind of a welcome was that? “Do you have any idea what I’ve been through?” she ground out.
“Of course. Earlier, I decided to follow you and Father Dan up to the church after all. I took the chain with me and happened to see the whole thing. Once you drove off with those men, I helped Daniel. He came up with a hiding place for the chain that’s perfect. We were going to go looking for you as soon as he could drive. Right now, his vision is double. But here you are! You’ve saved us a lot of trouble.”
Angie had the urge to kill. “Big of me, wasn’t it?”
I’ve got to be the unluckiest person in the whole goddamned world, Rocco thought, staring morosely at the telephone.
Seven o’clock, he’d been told. At seven o’clock he could call one of the biggest collectors of religious antiquities in the world right here in Rome. The only bit of luck he’d had all week was getting his hands on a phone number for the guy.
Now he had to wait. He didn’t see why he was letting himself get all jacked up about this. In his heart he already knew it wasn’t going to work out. He’d just be disappointed again. Ever since he’d gotten the chain, things had gone wrong for him. It was as if it was cursed. He should have ignored it—ignored everything. He never should have left Rome in the first place. He’d been happy here, as he’d told Cat’s little sister that day at Da Vinci’s.
Marcello had never appreciated Da Vinci’s the way Rocco did. It was just a tired little restaurant when his brother owned it. When Rocco took over, he fired the old staff, then hired loyal people, all the while continuing his pretense of being Marcello.
He’d done the same with the furniture store staff. It, too, was now operating well. He bought a house that tripled in value in five years, and even Caterina Amalfi finally looked at him as if he was almost human. When they were teenagers, he was so crazy about her, it hurt. And she never noticed him, not at all. That hurt worst of all.
In short, he was much more successful as Marcello than he’d ever been in his own life.
Then Marcello turned up and wanted it all back. He’d expected Rocco to walk
away with nothing.
Rocco had wanted to trust his own brother, but he couldn’t. And now Marcello was dead, and everything had gone to hell.
All he had left was the chain—once he got it back from Caterina.
He had to sell the chain. With the money, he’d buy himself a new identity. He could do it. It wouldn’t be the first time. He’d lived as Rocky Pick for years in Florida until his mother convinced him to help out Marcello.
He’d only done it because his mother asked him to. All he’d ever wanted was for her to look at him and say, just once, “You’re a good son.”
It never happened.
Now, even she was dead.
His eyes filled with tears.
If he couldn’t sell the chain, that’d be it. He needed to get away and make a new life for himself.
The timer on his cell phone beeped. Seven o’clock. Pessimistically, he made the phone call.
“I’ve got an extremely valuable relic,” Rocco said into the phone. “It’s something that every Catholic, maybe every Christian, would give anything to own. The Catholic Church is the owner of something very similar, and they’ve built an entire basilica around it.”
“Every knuckle joint of every saint to ever walk through Italy has a basilica built around it,” the collector said scornfully. “Tell me more!”
Rocco told as much as he could without giving away too much, such as his location. How was he supposed to know that Italy had a special law against selling or removing artwork and archeological treasures from the country? The prison time, the fine, both skyrocketed. Hell, if he were to get arrested for owning this lousy chain, he’d be better off back in the States. At least there, in a jury trial, he’d probably be able to convince jurors that he didn’t even think he was stealing. You can’t steal junk, can you? And the old rusty chain sure as hell looked like junk to him. Cat herself said that. He could have smacked her at the time, and might have, except that she scared the shit out of him. But she did have a point.
“As long as the age can be authenticated by my own appraisers, I want it,” the voice on the other end said.
Rocco was so busy with his own thoughts, with the misery of believing he was never, ever going to be able to get rid of the god-awful chain and what a mess his life had become because of it, that he hardly heard what the man said.
“You want it?” he repeated, too late to realize how foolish that sounded.
“That’s what I said. Why? Something wrong? Of course, three million is a little steep. I’ll pay two million euros. Not a penny more.”
Euros? The man was willing to pay in euros! Right now, the dollar was down, the euro up, making each euro worth about a buck thirty. “I understand,” Rocco said, trying to hide his glee. “But I can’t go a centesimo less than two and a half.”
“Two-point-three and that’s my final offer.”
Rocco smiled. “Sold!”
Chapter 39
The Woring house was packed with crime scene technicians. Yosh was inside waiting for the M.E.
Paavo stood outside by his car with Charles. He had just gotten word from the two police officers he’d sent to Moldwell-Ranker that the real estate agent was gone. Other police dispatched to Ranker’s house reported he wasn’t home either. Neither was he answering his cell phone.
Paavo had a good idea what was happening here in San Francisco. He wished he knew what was going on in Rome. The longer he didn’t hear from Angie, the stronger his foreboding grew.
Angie still hadn’t called. The only people who might know where she was were at Da Vinci’s. He knew someone should still be there for the dinner crowd. He took out his cell phone and called the Da Vinci number.
A male voice answered. “Pronto?”
“Hello?” Paavo said. “Is Angelina Amalfi there?”
“Che cosa? Chi é che parla?”
“Who is this?”
“Chi sono? Sono Cosimo Mandolini.”
Paavo scowled, and to Charles said, “I have no idea what he’s saying.”
“Let me.” Charles took the phone. As he spoke, he grew increasingly distressed. Yosh came out and waited beside Paavo for the conversation to end.
When Charles hung up, he took a deep breath before speaking. “The fellow was a waiter. He said the women are gone, but they left everything there—their passports, even their clothes. It looked as if a fight had taken place in their room. There was blood on the floor. He said no one at the restaurant has any idea where they are—” His voice broke.
Paavo was more composed. Just barely. In past situations when Angie was in danger, she was always nearby, and he was in familiar territory. He knew that if he just searched long enough and hard enough, he could find her. He always had faith that he’d get to her in time.
This time, though, was different. The thought of her being held against her will somewhere in Rome terrified him. He didn’t know the city, the language, or the laws. To save her, he was dependent on the Italian police. He knew they’d try, but to them, she was probably a nutty American tourist who was on an even crazier mission. “Did they call the police?”
“No. It was clear that someone at the restaurant didn’t want the police involved at all,” Charles answered bleakly. He closed his eyes for a second, hard in thought, then gazed steadily at Paavo. With a newfound conviction and confidence, he said with ferocity, “Enough is enough!”
After Angie’s near death experience, she wanted nothing more than to go home. Cat agreed it was time. Father Daniel, although still rocky, was ready to help.
“You have the chain, right?” she asked Cat.
“You can’t take it!” Father Daniel protested. “For one thing, you’ll never get it out of the country!”
“It’s safe where it is,” Cat interrupted. “No one will ever notice it. We can leave it there, and then come back and get it when it’s safe. Only you know, Father Daniel. Can we trust you to keep our secret?”
“Me?” He seemed torn and didn’t answer right away.
“Where is it?” Angie asked. Daniel’s reaction set off alarms in her head.
Cat smiled slyly. “It’s being used to hold a pair of St. Monica’s doors shut. We attached a padlock to it. It’s old and different, but unless a person knows what they’re looking for, they’ll assume it’s a chain like any other.”
“Clever.” Angie eyed Daniel closely as she said, “Don’t you agree, Father?”
He looked at her a long time before nodding. “I agree.”
Serefina was standing at his front door as Paavo pulled into a parking space. Barely over five feet tall, nearly as wide, with long black hair pulled tightly into a stylish bun, her black eyes looked ready to take on the world. At her sides were Bianca, Maria, and Frannie. Salvatore and Kenny were still in Disneyland.
“Serefina, what are you doing here?” Paavo hurried to her, Charles right behind him.
“I came to help—” Serefina’s voice broke and she lowered her eyes.
Paavo ached to see the usually strong, cheerful woman so desperate. He put his arms around her, hugging her tight. “It’ll work out, Serefina.”
At his warmth, she cried harder, and seeing their mother in tears, the three sisters began to cry as well. Even Charles looked weepy. Paavo held Serefina until she regained control of herself again. Then she straightened.
“Charles called me,” she explained, and gave him a quick hug.
“He did?” As Paavo unlocked the door, he glanced quizzically at Charles.
“He’s very brave,” Bianca added as they all entered the living room.
Brave? Paavo wondered what he was missing.
“We know what you need to do, Paavo,” Serefina said. “Don’t mind us.”
Paavo didn’t like what he was hearing. Serefina handed Charles a case. He tucked it under his arm.
“Salvatore has had it many years, but it works perfectly,” Serefina said.
“What’s going on?” The sudden coldness in Paavo’s voice caused th
em all to jump. A chill descended on the room.
“The man’s finally discovered he’s got balls! Let him use them,” Frannie said, bottom lip thrust out defiantly.
“Force for a righteous cause is just,” Maria chimed in. “Read the Old Testament.”
“He needs it.” Serefina opened her purse and put a box of .38 caliber shells on the table.
Paavo didn’t like what he suspected was going on. The temperature in the room dropped even further.
Charles put the case on the coffee table. Paavo gave him a look that unmistakably told him what he had to do.
Inhaling deeply, Charles opened the case. Inside was a Luger revolver.
“I’ll be so glad to get out of here!” Angie said as she, Cat, and Father Daniel piled into the Vatican’s Smart Car. Angie was forced to drive since Daniel’s vision was still shaky and Cat had no idea how to handle a stick shift.
Once at the airport, security would be so tight that even if the goons were following them, they could scream and the security guards would come running. She could then safely call Paavo and tell him they were on their way home. Finally!
They had to go by the restaurant to pick up their passports. It would be dangerous—the goons might be watching it—but they had no choice.
Hopefully, the goons had either been caught by the police or were still running.
Wearing heavy overcoats with the scarves pulled low on their foreheads, Angie and Cat reached Da Vinci’s along with a still woozy Father Daniel. Angie and Daniel kept a lookout for dumb, scary men, while Cat entered the back door and convinced Bruno to turn over their passports. He was full of questions, but she had no time for them. While there, she also took their belongings.
With Cat back in the car, Angie sped off for Fiumicino and the airport.
Angie kept peering out the back window, half expecting to see the two goons bearing down on them at any moment.
The traffic in Rome was even worse than earlier, but eventually they made it out of the city. They relaxed as they reached the highway heading southwest to the airport. It was about a thirty minute ride.
