When You Can't Stop (Harper McDaniel Book 2)

by James W. Hall

  “I certainly don’t want to assume more debt. But I do not see an alternative. I feel quite trapped.”

  Harper let his words hang in the air, then said, “Perhaps we should set a trap of our own.”

  That revived him. His eyes brightened, and he tilted his head to the side as if replaying her words in his mind.

  Outside the glass walls of his office, Harper saw the man named Pagolo staring at her. He had an ape’s sloping shoulders and long arms, and his face was darkened by the sun or perhaps his Moorish ancestors. When he saw her returning his look, Pagolo turned away and walked across the open floor toward one of the centrifuges.

  “Who is that man?” Harper asked.

  “What man?”

  “The man who was glaring at me.”

  “He glares at everyone. That’s Pagolo. He worked for Albion until recently, managing one of his larger groves, the Bellomo farm. I hired him to help me oversee the same land when it becomes mine. He knows the trees better than anyone in these parts. Disagreeable but knowledgeable. As I transition from being only a miller to maintaining the orchards as well, I will need more people like Pagolo.”

  “Do you have any idea why Albion resorted to threats and intimidation to pressure you to purchase his land?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps he bought those groves impulsively, then changed his mind about owning them, and I was the most likely buyer.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “I’ve tried to convince myself,” Manfred said. “But no, I believe he has some other scheme in mind. That’s how it feels. Forcing me to buy so much land, it is pushing me to my financial limits. I’m actually quite surprised the bank has approved the loan.”

  “Your friend, the young woman on your desk. Her name is Gerda Bixel, is it not?”

  He drew a sharp breath. “How did you know that?”

  “I’m an investigator. This is what I do.”

  His eyes ticked to the photograph. He swallowed hard.

  When he spoke, his voice sounded oddly faraway. “Gerda has nothing to do with my business.”

  “Gerda’s mother, you’ve met her, I suppose?”

  He took a deep swallow.

  “Of course, I’ve met her on many occasions.”

  He was looking into Harper’s eyes again. The sudden shifts in the conversation had so unsettled him Manfred seemed adrift, vulnerable.

  “Larissa Bixel is Lester Albion’s second-in-command. Correct?”

  “She is.”

  Something happened in his eyes at the mention of Larissa Bixel, some darkening of his mood, but Harper let it pass to continue her questioning.

  “And Gerda, she’s more than just a friend, isn’t she?”

  He drew another long breath, filling his lungs.

  “All right, yes. Gerda and I are very close. In truth, I would like to marry her. I have proposed.”

  “Has she agreed?”

  “She’s considering my offer.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “Why are you asking me these questions? What does any of this have to do with money laundering or crime of any sort?”

  “It goes to motive,” she said. “I’m trying to understand why Lester Albion would take such a powerful interest in your business affairs.”

  “All right,” he said. “Gerda and I have known each other since childhood. We were schoolmates, teammates.”

  “When and where did you last see Gerda Bixel?”

  “Earlier today, here in my quarters.”

  He motioned toward the ceiling.

  “Is she still here?”

  “I don’t believe so. Why? Do you want to meet her? Cross-examine her?”

  Harper gave his attempt at sarcasm a tolerant smile.

  “Does Gerda know anything about your real estate negotiations with Lester Albion?”

  “No.”

  “But surely her mother is privy to what Albion is doing.”

  “I would assume she is, yes.”

  “And you believe she would withhold such information from her daughter even though it concerns someone so close to her?”

  “Gerda has no interest in business matters and rarely speaks with her mother. They are not close.”

  “What exactly does Gerda do for a living?”

  “That’s quite enough.” Manfred came to his feet. “You have no right to ask these questions.”

  “Are you refusing to cooperate with the OLAF investigation?”

  He straightened, drew his shoulders back, chin rising as if he’d heard some patriotic tune and was about to march off to battle.

  “If Albion is using me to commit a crime, then I have no choice but to help you bring him to justice. But you will please leave Gerda out of these matters.”

  “All right, I’ll consider that request,” Harper said. “So your closing is to take place in four days’ time?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where?”

  “Here in my office.”

  “Will Lester Albion be present?”

  “No, his lawyer will attend, acting as the Vollmacht.”

  “Power of attorney,” she said.

  “Yes. Power of attorney.”

  “I want Lester Albion to be present.”

  Manfred Knobel chuckled dryly. “Such a man would never bother with something so inconsequential.”

  “We’ll make him bother.”

  “And how will you accomplish that?”

  “You will pass the word to his attorney that you will be bringing an assistant to the closing.”

  He shrugged and raised his hands, mystified.

  “Tell him your assistant’s name is Harper McDaniel.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t need to understand. Just make sure Albion knows that Ms. McDaniel will be present at the closing, and I assure you, Albion will come.”

  “What will this achieve, bringing Lester Albion to Bari?”

  “When all the pieces are in place,” Harper said, “I’ll explain.”

  In truth she had very few pieces to put into place so far. But at least now she had a theory about what Albion was up to. She needed to hash it out with Adrian, see if her hypothesis stood up to scrutiny. Adrian knew Albion far better than she did. If she was right, they had three days to put together a plan.

  “Ms. de Jong, please listen to me. I am willing to perform my part in the interests of justice. But I must have your promise that my purchase of Albion Olives will be completed no later than this coming Friday. The olives are ripe and already falling from the trees. If I don’t gain access to Albion’s crop by then, all the fruit will rot on the ground, and everything I’ve worked for will be lost.”

  She gave him her word. Even if she had to move heaven and earth, nothing would stop her from finishing this by Friday.

  “And this person—Ms. McDaniel—she will be attending the closing?”

  “Yes,” Harper said. “She most certainly will.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Bari, Italy

  A few minutes later, on the Via Dante Alighieri, Harper tracked down an electronics store, Calabresi Elettronica. The establishment was empty except for a man behind the front counter who identified himself as the owner and hopped down from a stool to assist her. He was in his seventies and had a shiny bald head, a two-day beard, and a gut that strained against the buttons on his white shirt.

  He followed her up and down the aisles, breathlessly explaining the virtues of each item she passed, speaking with such fervor that it seemed Harper was the first customer who’d wandered into his store in months.

  When she found the shelf she was looking for and took down a box to read the installation instructions, the man said, “Oh no, we have much better than this. Much better. This one is inferior. It will die in days, and you will be back in my store complaining. I can’t sell you that one. But the one next to it, yes, that one, it is superb. Crystal image. It connects with wireless and sends messagg
i di avviso to phone. Best security camera money will buy.”

  “I’ll take it,” she said.

  “Only one? Oh no, you must use several for the many angles a burglar could take to enter your house and locate your valuable items.”

  “Only one,” she said.

  She paid in cash and left the man pouting in disappointment.

  Next, she stopped in a pharmacy, bought cosmetics, toothpaste, a toothbrush, razor, shampoo, floss, deodorant, and a few feminine hygiene products. Then another stop in a nearby boutique, where she picked up three blouses in her size, a few undergarments, and two pairs of slacks.

  On the waterfront two blocks from her hotel, Harper stepped into the Caffetteria Diaz. She ordered coffee and a roll, then entered the bagno delle donne and scrubbed away the garish makeup, shook out her long black hair, and finger-combed it straight. She didn’t want to confuse the staff at her hotel.

  At the front desk of the Grande Albergo delle Nazioni, the clerk greeted her by name—that is, the name on the bogus passport she’d presented at check-in. To the fine people of the Nazioni, she was Louisa Andrea Hartwell of Montreal.

  “I have a friend coming to town tomorrow,” Harper told the clerk. “I’d very much like to reserve her a room.”

  “But of course,” the young man assured her.

  “Here’s the thing,” Harper said. “I’d like to put her in the adjoining room next to mine so we can go back and forth. We haven’t seen each other in ages. It’ll be a weeklong girl’s night.”

  She’d exceeded the limits of the young man’s English idiom, and he gave her a puzzled smile.

  “I don’t think anyone’s next door to me . . . could you look?”

  With a few keystrokes, he assured her that the room was, in fact, available. How long would she like to reserve it for?

  “A week would be perfect. Let me take the room right now so I can dress it up for her arrival. A few surprises, you know.”

  “Of course,” he said. “And your friend’s name?”

  “An American. Her name is Harper McDaniel. I have a photocopy of her passport and her American Express card if that would be helpful.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “Very helpful.”

  On the sixth floor, Harper unlocked the door to the adjoining room, went inside, and scouted the layout from the doorway to the balcony and back again, making two laps around the room before she decided on the exact spot to locate the video camera—on top of the tall armoire, where it would be invisible from almost any position in the room.

  She had to stand on a dining chair to place the camera correctly and make sure it had a clear sight line to the door. It took her a few minutes to hook it up to the hotel’s wireless system, and a few more to download the app to her phone and connect to the unit, then readjust the camera so the doorway stood in the center of the frame.

  She unbolted one side of the adjoining door, went into the hallway, and entered her own room and unbolted her side. Through the connecting door she carried her suitcase over to the new room and set it up on a luggage rack in plain view. In the closet she hung some of her slacks and blouses, then dropped a small pile of her dirty laundry on the floor nearby.

  She went back to her room, collected her used cosmetics and toiletries, brought them to the new room, and spread them out on the bathroom counter. An orderly arrangement, but not too orderly. She ran the shower, dampened a towel, dropped it in a corner of the bathroom. She plucked a couple of long black hairs from her scalp and dropped one in the bathtub, the other she let fall on the counter. She opened a bar of soap, foamed it up, spattered some suds on the countertop and the mirror, then rinsed and dropped the bar on the edge of the sink.

  She wasn’t sure who would come looking for Harper McDaniel in her hotel room. It might be Gerda, or it might be someone else in Albion’s stable of jackals. She did not intend to disappoint them.

  She hung a NON DISTURBARE sign on the outside knob to keep her handiwork safe from housekeeping, then came back into the room and switched on the camera, went back into her own room through the adjoining door, then entered the new room through the hallway door. Her phone squealed in her hand. On the screen was a clear image of Harper McDaniel staring down at her phone.

  Gerda sat in the sunshine on a public bench along the waterfront and sent her boss a text.

  Adrian Naff is in Bari, partnering with target. Instructions?

  This time, the answering text came only minutes later.

  Do you have Naff’s location?

  No

  Acquire his location and I will do the rest

  Gerda texted back before he had a chance to set his phone aside: I need a photo of Naff. Something to show around.

  Several minutes later Naff’s face filled the screen on her phone. Probably pulled from the employee directory. Hair shorter than it was now, face leaner, but the photo suited her needs. Naff had the leathery look of an outdoorsman. Too much sun, not enough lotion. A man who kept advancing when he should’ve retreated, who walked into punches he should’ve ducked. Rough-and-tumble wise guy who believed himself invincible, much like Vaughn Morrison had, the Navy SEAL Gerda had throttled on his dock in the Florida Keys. It was the tough ones who didn’t take her seriously who went down easiest.

  Good, Gerda typed fast. What about McDaniel? Photo?

  No

  Maybe your tech people can see if she used passport at hotel check-in or credit card maybe

  Gerda had to wait for several minutes before the reply came.

  She wouldn’t be that stupid

  Worth a try, no? She’s not unfehlbar. Infallible.

  I will see what our people can do

  On her phone, Gerda pulled up a list of hotels, B and Bs, and guesthouses in Bari. More than three hundred. If she got lucky, it might take a week to find Naff. Unlucky, she’d still be at it in six months. Until she had a better idea, she decided to start with the cheapest places, the hostels. Naff had the look of a Geizhals. Fucking cheapskate.

  Maybe he was shacked up with McDaniel, and it would be zwei Fliegen mit einer Klappe schlagen. Two birds, one stone.

  She decided to work from the waterfront to the inland hostels, start from the north end of Bari, where Manfred’s mill was located and where she’d seen Naff earlier, then progress to the south end of the town.

  By the third hostel, she’d refined her story. She was looking for her dad, a rimbambito, a dotard. He’d wandered off, and could they please help? The police were unsympathetic. She handed out her cell number to all the desk clerks. If you see him, please, please call, for my poor mother is back at home sobbing. There is a reward, a thousand euros.

  It was nearing dinnertime, and Gerda had stopped at a dozen places already, each hostel taking longer than she’d thought, when a woman in her forties, who had the haggard look of the grandmother she would one day become, took a long look at the photo and said, yes, she’d seen such a man—not here in her own establishment, but down on Via Giuseppe Capruzzi, not far, six or seven blocks.

  He was sitting in the piano bar at the Hotel Excelsior Congressi. The woman worked there in the kitchen as her second job. This man, this rimbambito, sat in a chair by himself and drank whiskey. She didn’t know if he was staying at the Excelsior or just drinking in the bar. But she could use that thousand euros. She was supporting three bambini of her own, and two more who had been left by her sister, who died of . . .

  Gerda didn’t wait around to find out how the sister had died. She left the hollow-eyed woman and trotted inland till she reached the Excelsior. A luxurious hotel, five stars. So he wasn’t a miser, but a bon vivant.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Naff,” she said to the concierge, who was reading a newspaper behind his podium at the front of the lobby.

  He gave her a long once-over and cocked one eyebrow.

  Gerda brought up Naff’s photo on her phone.

  “He might not be using that name.”

  “What do you want him for?” With the ti
p of his tongue, the concierge touched the corner of his mouth and kept it there.

  Maybe that was something Italian men did to excite their women, but it incensed Gerda. She loosened the scarf at her throat, pulled it free. Of course, she couldn’t strangle the man in a public place, but holding it at her side and picturing how she’d take the man down eased her irritation.

  Gerda said, “He’s my father. He ran away after he was diagnosed with cancer. But his tests were confused with another man’s. I must find him and tell him the wonderful news that he is healthy before he does something terrible to himself. Do you hear me, sir?”

  She had never before told such a fabulous lie. She wasn’t sure how she produced it. Maybe it was a gift from her hours of ecstasy with Manfred. Her inventiveness boosted by the afterglow circulating in her veins.

  “I wondered what is wrong,” the concierge said. “Your father look so disperato, and so much whiskey he drinks.”

  “Just tell me what room he’s in, ti prego.”

  “Of course, of course, wait here, if you please.”

  He was back a minute later, a forlorn expression.

  “Your father left this morning, checked out. I’m very sorry, young lady. So sorry I could not help.”

  She walked outside, wrapping the scarf back around her throat. She used her phone to check for other five-star hotels in Bari and found seven more, all along the waterfront, all nearby.

  Naff was so close she could almost smell his sweat.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Grande Albergo delle Nazioni Hotel, Bari, Italy

  Tuesday morning, Harper McDaniel was having morning coffee on her fourth-floor balcony at the Grande Albergo delle Nazioni, overlooking the Adriatic. Today in the crystal light, the Italian sea was a pale aquamarine, a shade that reminded her of the blue glacier martinis she and Ross used to drink on special occasions, a splash of curaçao in the Ketel One vodka, with a twist of lemon. Sipping them on the back porch of their Coconut Grove cottage long ago, when their future seemed as bright and infinite as the stars on a summer night.

  The coded taps on her hotel room door came just after eight o’clock. Adrian’s secret knock.

  She stood to the side of the door and looked through the peephole. Adrian gave her a lazy salute. She watched him for a few seconds more. Dressed in a dark-blue crewneck pullover and chinos, his hair combed, and a flake of toilet paper stuck to his chin where he’d blotted a shaving mishap.