by Sam Christer
He slaps his hands on the table and smiles. ‘No problem. You did it real well. Get Carter to give you an extra pair of hands to cover the Jacobs case until you crack it or it falls down. We’ll run another week and then review. This way you can work both, okay?’
Her face says it’s not but her mouth has learned to be compliant. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s all.’ He swings his feet back up on the spare seat and reaches for the financial papers he had been worrying over when she came in. ‘Stoicism suits you, Fallon.’
‘Thank you, sir. Would you like your door slammed hard enough to come off its hinges or just sufficient to break the glass?’
82
TURIN
Fabio Goria chain-smokes as he drives. ‘We are not going far. Across the river, about six kilometres south-east, into the forest. Craxi and his wife own a holiday lodge – a place to hide. They put it under her maiden name.’
It’s raining heavily now. As he looks out of the window, Nic can’t see much beyond the edge of the highway. ‘You said they were hiding. What or who are they hiding from?’
Goria looks his way. ‘I hoped you could tell me that.’
‘The Carabinieri?’
‘Possible but unlikely.’ The PI takes a last draw of his cigarette and flicks it through the window slit, a tumbling red firefly crashing and bouncing in the blackness. ‘If I were hiding from the Carabinieri, I would not do it on my own doorstep at a place they could easily trace.’
‘Then I don’t know. Things don’t add up at the moment. But my instinct tells me Craxi is connected to my case and to the Shroud.’
‘The Sacra Sindone has more than its fair share of mysteries. You have learned a little about it?’
‘Only from a fake verger. So I have a trust problem.’
‘Ill seldom comes from trusting strangers too little.’
‘Is that a wise old Italian saying?’
‘My father’s.’
‘And is he wise and old?’
Goria laughs. ‘Not really. He died in his forties of alcoholism, but he left his impressions, like most parents do.’
Nic looks out of the window at the flat fields rushing past. The last of the city lights have gone. The car is picking up speed down a dual carriageway heading into the countryside. ‘Given what you said about Craxi and his service record, is it a good idea to go surprising him in the dead of night?’
‘You are right, even though Craxi is almost sixty, he could snap your neck and bury you in the dirt like a dog does a bone. So we will not be alone and not giving him that opportunity.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
Five minutes later the Fiat turns off the Corso Chieri and down a tight, winding road heading to the Strada Communale di Valpiana. Goria kills the headlights as he slows almost to a halt and then eases the car onto a bumpy stone track running off to the right. ‘We stop here and walk.’
Nic unbuckles his seatbelt, gets out in the misty rain and closes the door as quietly as possible.
As they trudge into the woods, the Italian takes out a cell phone and sends a short pre-written SMS to one of his team. A minute later the phone vibrates in his hand. He stops and turns to Nic. ‘Now I make a call. The person who answers will be Roberto Craxi.’
Nic looks surprised.
‘One of my men slipped a phone through a window vent when Craxi went out in his car this evening. When he finds it he will not touch it. Only when he is sure that it is not an explosive, will he pick up.’ Goria makes the call.
As expected it rings out without any answer.
‘The tone is distinctive,’ says the PI, almost mischievously, as he calls again. ‘You know the Pink Panther?’
‘Of course. Henry Mancini – you picked it because he’s an Italian composer?’
‘No.’ The call fails once more and he dials for a third time. ‘No, not Italian – Mancini was American. His family, though, come from Abruzzo, as do Roberto’s.’ Suddenly he pulls the phone from his ear and thrusts it at Nic. ‘It’s him.’
Nic grabs the handset. ‘Mr Craxi, please don’t hang up, I’m—’
The line is already dead.
‘He’s gone.’
‘Keep trying. Press redial.’
Nic tries again and listens to the call connect.
He’s picked up.
‘Mr Craxi, my name is Nic Karakandez.’ He tries to cram in as much as possible to stop him hanging up again. ‘I’m from the LAPD and I have to talk to you.’
This time the line doesn’t go dead. Nic can tell the connection is still live. There’s an eerie silence broken by the crackle of electronic static. ‘I need your help. I have to talk to you about Tamara Jacobs and your relationship with her.’
There is still no answer.
Nic ploughs on. ‘Please. I know you are there. I know you are listening. I’ve come all the way from Los Angeles to talk to you and I’d like to meet with you and ask a few questions.’
Still nothing.
‘Mr Craxi – Signore – will you see me? Can we meet somewhere?’
Just the hiss of cyber-silence.
Nic looks worried. He glances at Goria. ‘I’m not sure he’s there.’
‘Keep the line open,’ says the Italian. ‘We walk down here and in a few minutes you will see his lodge and my men.’
Nic keeps talking as they weave their way through the trees and down a soft, slippy embankment of wet soil and rotted leaves. Through the wood comes the sight of yellow boxes of light. Windows. Goria reaches for his belt and unclips a military-standard walkie-talkie, the type that scrambles signals and allows you to talk to people up to five miles away.
Nic watches as he whispers in Italian. Watches as he repeats the message and waits. Watches as his face gradually changes.
‘There’s something wrong,’ says Goria. ‘Very wrong.’
83
77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES
Tyler Carter is either a wizard or an asshole. The Homicide Unit seems divided on the issue. A year-on-year record of turning in the best clean-up rate in the state means the smart money is on him hitting captain within the next few years. What’s beyond doubt is that the thirty-three-year-old is arrogant, introverted and disrespects almost everything and everyone.
Carter comes from banker wealth and can’t help but stand out from the crowd. He was supposed to tread the gold road like his daddy and his granddaddy before him. Only he had other ideas. He wanted a badge and a gun, not a briefcase and diversified share portfolio. Even Daddy and his millions couldn’t stand in the way. Wall Street’s loss turned out to be the LAPD’s gain. Everything is going well. Or at least it was – until eight months ago.
Until the Creeper.
The Creeper is the name of the serial killer he’s hunting, a moniker the cops hope the press never get hold of. To date, the perp has ten kills notched on his bedpost and there isn’t anyone on the task force who would be surprised to find at least another ten down to him.
Mitzi Fallon sits at Carter’s desk learning what she’s let herself in for.
‘The nickname comes from the fact the guy’s never been seen—’
‘Never?’
Carter flashes her a steely look. ‘I don’t like interruptions. If you need clarification, wait and ask at the end.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Let me finish and you won’t need to ask unnecessary questions. The perp has never been seen. He creeps into the homes of women living alone and kills them in their sleep.’
Mitzi’s about to ask how but decides to save it.
‘Always the same MO. He pulls a bed sheet or quilt tight around their arms and legs so they can’t struggle. He kneels on them and chokes them manually.’ Tyler guesses what’s in her mind. ‘Left-handed, always only one hand. ME says there’s evidence in some cases he put his right hand over their mouths.’
Mitzi wonders if the victims bit him, if there was a chance of DNA.
‘We got genetic fingerprints from t
he first and third victims – first and third we know of, that is. I’ll give you files. First was hair and saliva. Shin hairs and wool sock fluff – caught on the side of the bed when he climbed up on the vic. Third was flesh and blood from a bite when he put his right hand over her mouth. Before you ask, yes, we ran database searches. The guy has no record and the FBI drew blanks as well. I even checked with Canadian police. You can ask questions now.’
She looks across and takes him in – the chiselled, well-shaven face, clear blue eyes, immaculately cut short, dark and grey-free hair, beautiful black suit and crisp white shirt. Perfect. Too perfect. ‘Do you ever laugh, get drunk, jerk off or have any vices?’
‘No.’ His voice is as cold as his eyes.
‘Good. Only I’d hate to think there was anything normal about you.’ She gets up from her seat.
‘Where you going? I’m not finished.’
‘Tampon. I have a particularly heavy period at the moment and I need to change my sanitary product as quickly as possible. I’m using the super-strength version – maximum protection it says on the box – to absorb as much of the menstrual flow as possible for as long as possible. You can ask more when I’m done.’
His perfect jaw drops.
Mitzi turns and smiles pleasantly as she opens the door. ‘I’ll bring us both coffee on the way back. Then maybe we can round off with a summary of exactly what you want me to do and I can tell you exactly how I need to be treated in order for you to get me to do it.’
84
TURIN
The two men hurry to the bottom of the steep embankment. Nic drops back as Goria jerks the black butt of a gun out of his belt.
In the soft earth and rotting leaves in front of them is the body of a man. Motionless.
Then slowly moving. Alive not dead, but certainly injured. Goria drops to one knee beside the prone figure. He points his gun into the half-light spilling from the lodge twenty metres away. Then he shines a torch into the injured man’s face. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Someone hit me.’ The man’s fingers go to the back of his head. ‘I’m sorry.’ He struggles to his feet and looks dizzy.
The private detective steadies him, gives him time before pressing him for more information on the attack. Nic moves towards the log cabin. He hears a sudden sound. A rustle in the open, over to one side of the building. Like an animal caught in bushes trying to shake free. He steps closer, stands off about five metres.
‘Fabio,’ he whispers.
The Italian looks round and slides away from his injured colleague.
Nic points towards the thick shrub and says, ‘In there.’
Goria takes a breath, swings over his light and gun. The beam picks out a scratched and bleeding face. A human face. A woman’s face.
85
77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES
Mitzi puts two mugs of black coffee on Tyler Carter’s desk. ‘I figured you didn’t do cream or sugar.’
‘You figured right.’ He takes the drink nearest him. ‘Matthews said good things about you.’
She takes it as a thawing of the ice. ‘Nice to know. He mention anything about a raise, promotion or early retirement?’
Carter almost smiles. ‘Not that I heard. Jordan’s illness has come at a bad time.’
‘For him or for you?’
‘Both. I’m not as cold as I look. He may be a drunk but he was a better cop than most. Jay gave a hundred per cent effort a hundred per cent of the time. Point is, our killer is due. Overdue for that matter.’
‘You know I’m still working the Tamara Jacobs case?’
‘Matthews said. Out-of-town hit by the sound of it. Help me out on this – really help me out – and I’ll give you men and brains to clear up your file.’
‘Deal.’
Carter reaches behind and grabs two handfuls of manila files. ‘Forensics, psych profiles and crime pattern analysis on the Creeper. Read and digest.’
‘You said he was overdue.’
‘Kill pattern shrank from nine months to six, then to three. Held at twelve weeks for two kills, then we had another last month and one more just twelve days ago.’
‘He’s escalating.’
‘Probably doesn’t know it, probably thinks he’s got everything under control and is feeling at his most powerful.’
‘But he’s not?’
‘You worked a serial before?’
She shakes her head. ‘A double murder, but both killed at the same time. Two serial rapes. One with more than a dozen attacks to the bastard’s name.’
‘Similar and not similar. Rape is usually about power and sexuality, the offender often goes to excess to control – ropes, bindings, verbal threats and there can be signs of rage on the victim’s body. Serial murder can be a host of things. Our perp isn’t sexual and there isn’t rage.’
‘Attacking a woman in her own bed at night isn’t sexual?’
Carter nods at the files he’s just given her. ‘No point to this conversation right now – you’re not properly informed. Read the profiles, then we’ll talk more.’
A knowing smile starts to crease her lips. ‘C’mon, you’re holding back. If you need a hundred per cent effort, you’ve got to give me a hundred per cent information.’
He weighs her up. Seems every bit as smart as Matthews said. ‘Okay, but listen, this isn’t public knowledge. When the Creeper kills his victims he strips them, puts them on the floor and covers them.’
‘With what?’
‘He takes a sheet off the bed. Drapes them head to toe. Tucks it behind the back of the skull and lifts their feet. They look just like they’ve been wrapped in a shroud.’
86
TURIN
Erica Craxi is still shaking. And with good reason.
Goria leaves the fifty-four-year-old with his colleague Dario, while he talks to Nic. ‘Her husband is not here.’
The American looks worried. ‘The phone call, did I—’
‘No. It wasn’t that. He’d gone before you called. His wife says he heard something and went outside with his gun to investigate. He told her to go out the back door and hide in the woods until he came back.’
Nic nods towards Goria’s colleague. ‘What did Craxi hear, your man moving around?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, not him. Dario heard something too but didn’t want to break cover. He saw Craxi come outside and he went to follow him. Someone cracked him over the head and stuck a sedative in his neck. Now he thinks I will sack him for being useless.’
‘And will you?’
‘Probably, but not tonight. Tonight there is still much work to do.’
‘So where’s Craxi now?’
‘The wife doesn’t know.’
‘And your men – your team – they didn’t see anything?’
‘Doesn’t seem that way.’ Goria falls silent. He’s been outwitted. Made to look foolish. Now the LAPD officer with powerful FBI friends will start questioning his value. ‘Let’s go inside and speak to the signora. Maybe she can help us.’
Nic wonders who answered his call, who was listening to him when he thought Craxi was on the line. Goria uses his walkie-talkie to call the rest of his team out of their surveillance positions. The lodge is small and basic. Bare board walls and scatter rugs are warmed by a wood-burning stove that cradles the last charcoal embers of what an hour ago was a blazing fire. Two sofas covered with thick red blankets face off across a low, junk wood table covered in tabloid magazines and old paperbacks.
Erica Craxi settles in a dent on a sofa and Nic can tell this is her usual place. A lipstick-marked mug of almost-finished coffee on the floor by her feet confirms it. Goria sits next to her. She wraps a blanket protectively around her knees and tries to control the shaking as he talks softly in Italian. Right now she looks much older than her fifty-four years. Grey hair is clumped and matted with soil and shredded leaves. Her eyes are darkened by tears and smudged mascara. Dario appears from the kitchen with a glass of water and a wet hand tow
el to clean the scratches on her face.
Goria keeps his voice low as he briefs Nic. ‘The signora says Roberto was convinced there were people closing in on them. He thought he saw something moving outside, took his gun and went to look. He told Erica to hide in the woods until he returned because he knew she’d be a sitting duck if anyone entered the lodge. Anyway, after he’d gone she hesitated.’ Goria half-laughs then whispers even more quietly, ‘She wanted to go to the toilet first. While she was in there, she heard a phone ringing. The one we’d dropped through a window. It frightened her, especially when it went for the second time and she heard someone’s footsteps inside the lodge. The phone rang again. She stayed tight and listened to the intruder walking with it through to where we are now. That’s when she made a break for the woods and when we arrived.’
‘So we just missed whoever was here?’
‘Sounds like it.’
Nic turns his attention to the wife of the man he’s tracked thousands of miles. ‘Signora, I came here to speak to your husband about a Hollywood writer called Tamara Jacobs – do you know who I mean?’
She doesn’t speak, just looks at him with frightened eyes and nods. It’s a small gesture, but Nic feels a wave of relief wash over him. ‘Mrs Jacobs is dead,’ he says. ‘She was murdered.’
Erica Craxi holds a tissue to her nose. Her trembling fingers close around the Saint Christopher locket hanging from her neck.
‘Your husband Roberto received a series of substantial wire payments from Mrs Jacobs. Do you know what she was paying him for?
Erica dips her eyes. ‘I know exactly what he was being paid for.’
Nic’s heart thumps. ‘What was it?’
She shakes her head. ‘Not with these people here. Ask them to leave and I will tell you.’
Nic nods to Goria and the Italian ushers his men outside. Erica takes a deep breath and looks trustingly to the American. ‘My husband was on special assignment, part of a detail to protect the Holy Shroud, when it was last exhibited in public.’
