“I’m needed in my own prison,” Javier said. “They want me in Milan tomorrow and Washington next week. The blowback from the Kozak assassination still needs to be dealt with. The right wing in Croatia and that PR woman friend of Kozak’s are trying to make it look like the United States is behind the assassination. Something about an imposter sent here to Venice to impersonate Jurić and that we are behind Marika’s death.”
“Great, just great,” Alex said. “Have you heard about Turner and Damico?”
“Turner is in the hospital with a leg wound, lucky to be alive,” Nox said. “Damico’s face is bandaged from a bad laceration that did not improve his looks, I’m told. They did not arrive as official federal agents—as you suspected, they were after the money for themselves. I would say they are going to lose their government salaries. And they had guns, and the Italians do not appreciate visitors with guns, even ‘gun-happy’ Americans, as the sergeant called us. The last report I heard was that they will be thrown out of Italy as soon as they can walk. When their hotel room was searched, they found a small address book. One of the numbers was for a cell phone, area code Cleveland. It belonged to a detective in the Cleveland police department; the number was also on Turner’s cell phone. Do you know a Robert Simmons?”
“Not Bob? He was my partner until all this crap with my husband blew up. Bob couldn’t be the leak.”
“No, it was his new partner, the one that replaced you. Wasn’t hard to trace Turner through him. The idiot left Turner’s number on his own phone. Your captain is following this up. I have to wonder about your Cleveland detectives.”
“They are like every police force: there are bad apples, and then there are peaches like me,” Alex said. “And sometimes they are just plain stupid.”
“Our agency cleaners have also finished with Kozak’s suite at the hotel,” Nox added. “There is nothing left to connect Cleveland or the United States with anything to do with Croatia. There are suggestions, in some of the correspondence and e-mails that were found on Ms. Stankić’s computer, that the Russians might be involved. It is being pursued. And they found your purse, Alex.”
“I’ve had dealings with the Russians in Cleveland,” Alex said. “Not a nice bunch. I really would like the things in my wallet, particularly my ID and shield. There are some pictures, my old passport—not that it had any places of interest stamped in it—and about three hundred euros. I could really use that right now.”
“I will see what I can do,” Javier said. “If not, it will be sent to you in Cleveland. We have your home address.”
Alex looked at Javier. “Of course you do. Gee, golly, thanks. But right now, outside of the euros that you lent me, I’m still broke.”
“I’ll lend you a few hundred more,” Javier said.
“My hero. That’s the least you can do.”
“They did find a suitcase. Are you missing a fine German aluminum suitcase?” Nox asked. “Alex, think very carefully about your answer.”
“No, it’s not mine.”
“I’ll ask one more time, an aluminum . . .”
“No, it’s not mine,” Alex insisted.
“More’s the pity then. They estimate that there are a million euros stuffed in the thing. All nice and crinkly—and unmarked. Too bad it’s on its way to Milan with Javier. If the Italians find out, they would want it.”
“I used to like you, Albert. That was not nice.”
“I’ll walk you back to your hotel,” Javier said.
“I would like that,” Alex said.
The snow had melted off the paving stones but still clung to streetlamps and restaurant tabletops. The wind had died to nothing; at that hour of the morning, the streets were quiet, still, almost tranquil.
“Hard to believe all that happened in just the last four days,” Alex said, holding Javier’s hand.
“I’m sorry that you got all mixed up in this. Then again . . .” He stopped, turned her face to his, and kissed her, deeply, longingly, knowingly. “I would never have met you.”
She melted into his arms, his warmth almost more than she could hold.
“Do you mind if I cry?” she asked, a tear coursing down her cheek. “I need a good cry.”
He squeezed her tighter. Her sobs, soft and gentle, dampened his ear. They held each other, each not wanting to be the first to let go.
They walked the rest of the way to her hotel. He didn’t ask; she didn’t offer. Alex only said, “I don’t think I can be alone, Javier. Please don’t leave me alone. Dammit all, I don’t want to be alone.”
Later that afternoon, the front desk called and said they had managed to reserve a seat on a flight out of Venice that night; she would be routed through Heathrow to a nonstop flight to Boston, then on to Cleveland. Giuseppe’s business card sat near the phone on the small desk. Alex called the young man who had first carried her into Venice.
The bow of the mahogany water taxi cut through the light chop of the lagoon, spreading a V-shaped wake outward from the stern. Her hands on the stern’s chrome railing, Alex stood and watched as Venice, framed in the double wake, receded. The wind rustled her blonde hair. Behind the iconic skyline, the setting sun, a bright-yellow button, tried vainly to warm her face. Javier held her tightly around her waist.
Has it just been four days, less than a week?
She raised her face and kissed him, for the thousandth time that day. Her one black carry-on bag rested on the deck near the cabin’s door. They walked back into the cabin.
“Warm enough?” Javier asked as she sat next to him, slipping a blanket over their legs.
“Yes.” She snuggled close to the Texan. “You?”
“Warmer than I’ve felt in a long time.”
“Sometimes you can be so sweet.”
“And the other times?”
“I’m saving that.”
Giuseppe’s wondrous mahogany motor taxi continued on across the lagoon, toward the airport. The two lovers, holding each other’s hands, watched La Serenissima dissolve wistfully into the setting sun.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For research on the Bosnian War, I used movies and two books. The books provided background and detail necessary to tell the brutal story that was the Bosnian War. David Rieff was there during the fighting; and within months of the declared peace, he published Slaughterhouse: Bosnia and the Failure of the West. Also contemporary and published soon after the war’s end was Mark Almond’s Europe’s Backyard War: The War in the Balkans. I recommend them both. This was, as with all wars, a horrific struggle between cultures and religions.
I want to thank the editors and marketing staff of Thomas & Mercer for backing this story. I express a specific thank-you to Matthew Patin, developmental editor; his efforts made this a stronger narrative. And most significantly, thank you to Jessica Tribble, my editor, for believing in Alexandra Polonia and to Sarah Shaw for handling the marketing. When it comes to author relations, they are a special team in the Thomas & Mercer world.
I am honored and pleased to call Kimberley Cameron both agent and friend. It was her idea that pushed me into telling this story. I am thrilled to be a part of her agency, Kimberley Cameron & Associates. I join a tribe of amazing writers whose careers are what they are because of this incredible person.
And of exceptional note, thanks to my wife, Bonnie, who’s been the love of my life for forty-seven years and is involved in every book I write. Her keen insight, ideas, critiques, edits, and especially friendship and patience make these miracles happen. To be honest, they are as much her work as mine.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2010 Penelope Lippincort
Gregory C. Randall was born in Michigan, raised in Chicago, and currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with his wife. He is the author of the five-book series The Sharon O’Mara Chronicles and the Detective Tony Alfano noir thrillers, Chicago Swing and Chicago Jazz, set in 1933 Chicago. His young adult novel, Elk River, won critical acclaim and awards from the Independent B
ook Publishers Association and the Northern California Book Publishers Association. Gregory and his wife also operate an independent book publishing company, Windsor Hill Publishing.
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