Venetian Blood

by Christine Evelyn Volker

  Anna had read about the wildlife-crime epidemic back at Treasury. There had been ten million elephants in Africa in 1930. By 1989, when the uncontrolled ivory trade supposedly came to an end, the elephant population had plunged to six hundred thousand, and the voluntary agreements were failing to stem a rising tide of blood and tusks. After years of trophy hunting, Sergio must have decided to make a second killing. Instead of mowing down an elephant or a rhino in an excruciatingly painful hail of bullets, he was paying others to massacre the animals while orchestrating a global business in their parts.

  “Well,” Roberto said with a snicker, “we see why Sergio’s bank did not provide reports on suspected money launderers. He would have had to turn himself in. We will track down the wire transfers to Africa, additional copies of letters of credit, and receipts from artists. The trail starts with that. We’ll also access SWIFT’s data on its financial-messaging services. Rebel and terror groups, maybe in the Congo, along with contacts in Mozambique or Zaire, would have been paid for slaughtering the animals. With that money, they buy weapons, the majority made in the United States.

  “Poachers cannot resist the money, either. They see the animals as ATM cards, butchered for cash—they get many thousands of dollars for a pair of tusks. Most of the ivory ships out of Mombasa or Dar es Salaam to China, sometimes transiting through Hong Kong, Vietnam, or Thailand. It’s processed in Dongguan or elsewhere, carved into artwork, sold in vast numbers to Chinese consumers, and exported to other countries, like yours. Polo Road’s true business must be selling illegal ivory. New York is a huge market. San Francisco is a big center. Western Europe isn’t innocent, either. And a small amount is sold in the African country of origin, where ignorant or craven foreign tourists end up smuggling it back home.”

  “What about the rhino horns?” Anna asked.

  “Ultimately ground up and used for folk medicine in Asia—more precious than gold on the black market. Not only that, now that the tigers are being killed off, I am afraid that lions and their skeletons are next. We have confiscated shipments here, arrested tourists coming through Italy trying to smuggle animal parts. I—” He stopped, shaking his head.

  “This seems personal,” Anna said gently.

  Roberto stared at his hands. “I’ve touched the ragged, broken edges of the tusks and horns of those beautiful animals, smeared with their dried blood.”

  Anna’s stomach turned. “Maybe there’s a little good news in what we’ve found. If the funds-flow data is complete, Sergio didn’t get too far in Peru.” She wondered whether Pablo had had anything to do with that.

  “Lucky for the jaguar and the caiman, too. For now.”

  “These faxes are yours to keep, Roberto. Brian Morrison’s name is at the bottom. Please be sure to recognize him in official circles that go higher than Leslie Tanner, my old boss. He went out on a limb to do this for me and was fired as a result. He deserves to be rehired and given a promotion.”

  “Gladly. I will formally thank you as well. We’ll need a few days to analyze everything and pull it together.” He looked at his watch. “It’s almost eight. I didn’t bring my boat today. Shall we take a water taxi back? I can walk you to your pensione, maybe we eat something along the way.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “You’ve had a rough time. Not to mention, you are not safe here, at least not after dark. Give me a few minutes to advise my partner on our progress.” He scooped up all of the material and left the room.

  Mulling over the last few hours, Anna felt a flicker of optimism. She wandered over to the window and cast her gaze on the water. The waves were dancing in the reflected lights; some boats were docking, while others headed for the infinite horizon. Her thoughts circled back to Biondi, and the courteous way he had spoken to Count Favier in the Public Gardens, even addressing him formally. Clearly, the count was someone Biondi would never curse. She realized she had been mistaken about the person who had pulled strings to keep her out of jail, although he’d never admit it. He was standing at the door.

  “Ready?” Roberto asked. He took her arm, and they headed into the veil of the night.

  Once back in the heart of Venice, they chose a canal-side restaurant with brightly colored hanging lanterns that reminded Anna of eating in Japantown. Water taxis and lamplit gondolas floated by as if on a stage, accompanied by the lulling sound of waves lapping against the embankment. But this was real. Anna tried to relax and enjoy the evening. Here was a man with principles, a man who interested her, a bright, worldly man in a fascinating city. Under different circumstances, it would be ideal.

  They raised their glasses of fruity Valpolicella to toast elephants, sniffer dogs at airports and seaports, and intrepid park rangers who risked their lives, along with a future where armies fought to protect wild animals instead of making war, and organizations educated local people to change some destructive values of their cultures. With a few more glasses, they had solved the poaching epidemic.

  As they savored fragrant chicken spezzatino with peppers and onions, they talked about their childhoods, educations, and lives. He expressed concern about the loss of her parents and showed curiosity about her upbringing. Anna learned about Roberto’s father, Edgardo, the moral compass of the family. Under his influence, Roberto had majored in ancient philosophy before pursuing a graduate degree in business at Bocconi University in Milan. This had launched his career, first at Mediobanca, then elsewhere.

  This brought them back to the present and Sergio Corrin. Anna confided that she and Margo had been searching Alessandro’s library for clues to his murder. She told Roberto about the unsolved Gondola Murders and said there was a possibility they were connected to Sergio’s death.

  “Chances are there is no connection, Anna. Does Alessandro know what you’re doing?”

  She shook her head. “There are some similarities, you know, like the murder weapon and especially the mutilation. About Alessandro, what else am I going to do? The way I look at it, the police would need a search warrant. If I find something that helps me, or them, I’ll bring it to their attention. Biondi took some of the material from my room.” She told him the details of the ledger, as well as of the Liechtenstein document she had seen in Dudley’s study.

  “Sergio’s downfall likely came from the circle of poachers and other criminals he built up around him, not his old friends,” Roberto told her. “These will be hardened men. If you crossed any of them, we would be lucky,” he said, straightening his napkin, “to find your body.”

  “I promise I’ll be very careful.”

  Roberto pushed his plate away. “Tell me, what did you ever see in that monster?”

  “Nothing of value.” Anna shook her head in disgust. “Charm and a fantasy. I was running away from my marriage, in a foreign country, and couldn’t think straight. I was an easy mark.”

  As they shared a caramel and chocolate budino, Anna lingered on the first bite. At least I can give in to this tonight, she thought.

  After coffee, Roberto grew quiet, meditating on the water. “They mourn their dead, you know.”

  Anna had been lost in her own thoughts. “Who?”

  “I was on a photo safari five years ago, with my ex-fiancée. Our group happened upon an extended family of elephants. The matriarch had been killed—butchered for her tusks, the rest of her bloodied and covered with flies. Her calf, just a few years old, was nuzzling her, wailing.”

  Anna recalled the baby elephant in Sergio’s gallery.

  “The elephants made a circle around her body, like they were guarding her,” he said. “Some were making low, rumbling cries. Each slowly passed its trunk over her, caressing her, as if they were saying goodbye. Then they threw dirt on her with their trunks. When we passed the spot a day later, they were still standing there, keeping vigil. I tell you, the beauty and richness of these countries are being destroyed for a craving that will never cease until the last animal is dead. That was when I decided.”

  “What?”
/>   “To, how do you say—chuck—it all?”

  Anna nodded.

  “To change my life’s direction. The funny thing was, then my fiancée changed hers.”

  “How so?”

  “She left me.”

  “I would think that never happens to you.”

  He looked at her with the ghost of a smile. “She was in love with Roberto, the investment banker, making tons of lire. She could not love Roberto, working for the Guardia di Finanza. It was a painful, yet excellent lesson.”

  After dinner, Roberto put his arm on her shoulder as they strolled back to her hotel by way of little alleys with their precious canal views. When they reached Pensione Stella, he gave her a soft kiss. “Let me know when you are leaving. Give me a call. Here,” he handed her a card, “it’s my undercover one,” he whispered, winking before opening the door for her.

  She turned around just as he ascended the nearest bridge and disappeared.

  L’Ospedale Civile

  Sunday, early morning

  Anna counted the lire bank notes and poured a cascade of silver coins onto the paper pile on her bed. Did she really have the equivalent of just five hundred dollars left? Still in her nightgown, she wandered to the window, opening the shutters onto the tranquil calle. On the balcony opposite, plump cherub faces peeked out from the overgrown ivy.

  Dragging herself to her mirror, Anna reached for a comb. Her hair had always disobeyed her. She was tugging at a few rebel curls when she noticed some movement in an upper corner of the mirror. Like a tiny tornado, a clear funnel spun on the surface before clearing. Beyond the sparkling balcony, Anna saw the reflection of an elegantly dressed woman, plaiting a little girl’s dark tresses. Transfixed, Anna watched as the mother arranged golden barrettes in her daughter’s braids.

  Loud knocking interrupted her thoughts. “Anna, it’s Margo! We have to go to the hospital now.”

  “What do you mean?” Anna asked as she opened the door.

  “The doctor called me late last night. Things are bad. He’s expecting us in an hour. We have to have hope.”

  Anna looked at Margo in alarm. Is this how it would end? She had needed to believe that Angela wouldn’t die, that somehow she would spring back, even if the odds against it seemed great. How could Angela be so vibrant, happy, fecund one day and dying the next? It seemed not only terrifying, but contrary to natural law.

  Inwardly, she was fuming. What was the use of hope? The doctors in their white coats would tend to Angela. Amid calculations of probability and statistics, there was no room for hope. Or religion. Hope didn’t make the dying live.

  “Yes, of course,” Anna said. She paused. “I just saw the weirdest thing.” Her mind sputtered and leaped to the scene she had witnessed. “A woman was combing a little girl’s hair in the palazzo across from here.”

  “Why was that weird?”

  “Let me show you.” Anna took Margo’s arm and brought her to the window. “There,” she pointed.

  “I can’t see a thing. The shutters are closed.”

  “They are now.”

  Margo scrutinized her friend. “Isn’t this the building Alessandro said was vacant?”

  “He must be hiding something.”

  “We need to get going,” Margo said, her voice tense. “Can’t you hurry?”

  The Ospedale Civile was buried in the twisted heart of Castello. When Anna crossed its threshold, a familiar smell reclaimed her and spiraled her back in time. She had been aware of death for as long as she could remember. It took the people she loved and left her with nothing.

  As they passed the police checkpoint in the hall, the officer barely looked up, his head buried in La Gazzetta dello Sport. Entering Angela’s room, Anna saw the IV first. One drop of blood slid after another, sealed in the scarlet packet feeding the puncture in Angela’s wrist. The deep red liquid did nothing to brighten the ghostly cheeks. An octopus of tubes was feeding and breathing for her. Her heartbeats were oscillating in black on a green screen. Anna felt horrified that they’d been allowed in at all.

  In her mind, Angela’s room became a medieval painting. At the center was Angela, skin covered in a pearly gleam. Her eyes were closed, one tear poised on her cheek. The tear reflected all the world and His greatness. To her right, a nurse bent over her bed like a lady-in-waiting, holding her hand. To her left, an arched window framed a canal that had felt the ebb and flow of time and eternity. Those waters had carried French kings, Italian popes, Holy Roman Emperors. Hope was a bird on white wings that had no place in Anna’s painting.

  Because she had been here before, she knew what lay ahead. Back then, she had also dreaded what lay inside the hospital room. Forcing herself to go on without becoming sick or losing control had taken every bit of her courage. The lights of Manhattan had glittered through the window behind him, creating their own meteor trails, constellations, and planets, foreign to Anna’s eyes. He didn’t know her anymore. He knew no one, lost in the distant solar system of his mind.

  Nonno had been just as pale and untouchable as Angela when Anna had visited him for the last time. His body, once so stout and strong, seemed frighteningly dwarfed by the hospital bed. The respirator’s measured, mechanical breath forced the air into his unwilling lungs. “Don’t leave me,” she had begged, digging her nails into her palms. She had wanted him to hear her words of love, feel her kiss on his cold lips. Taking his hand, she had promised him that she would never forget his plea. She thought she had felt a weak squeeze, like that of a tiny baby.

  Anna heard Margo’s throaty voice—something about Angela staying with her, spoiling the baby together, having fun. “Oh, look, Anna is here to see you,” she said, her red-rimmed eyes beseeching. “Come by the bed and spend time with Angela. I need to speak to the doctor.”

  Angela looked peaceful but lost, without bearings, without wings. Where was Angela: Trapped inside her immobile body, hearing everything and silently screaming for help, ruing her unfulfilled dreams? Or caught in the cold, fatal embrace of nothingness? Anna did not know which hell would be worse.

  She pushed herself forward and gently rubbed Angela’s yielding upper arm. Once, Anna had been possessed by envy; now, waves of pity tumbled over her as she recited aloud all that Angela had to live for. Everything that had eluded Anna. Looking at young, naïve Angela, she felt she should have warned her to be careful. The money she’d sent from her Dallas gallery was mingling with criminal funds in the witches’ brew that Sergio and his accomplices had steeped.

  When Margo returned, she took Anna aside. “Her pupils are barely responding,” she said in a throbbing voice. “She’s deep in the coma. The baby’s dead, no heartbeat; operating will yield nothing except weaken Angela more. It’s not looking good. Oh, God, what am I saying?” Margo sighed. “They told me she’s not going to make it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Anna said.

  “Blood! She lost too much blood. Her left hand was mutilated. The ring finger’s almost gone; they had to amputate it cleanly. Michael, her husband, will arrive in a few hours. I hope he’ll be in time to see her alive.” Margo was trembling as Anna hugged her.

  Margo leaned down to give Angela a kiss before hovering at her bedside, gazing distractedly at the glimmering locket in the hollow of her throat. “I shouldn’t leave her jewelry here,” she said, bending to open the clasp. The heavy necklace slid into her cupped hand.

  “I’ve always loved this heirloom,” she said, holding the locket in the light streaming through the window. “Angela would never show me what’s inside,” she added, opening it. “Oh, look, a picture of Michael and . . . and . . . a place for one of the baby.”

  Anna spotted a dark-haired bear of a man.

  “It’s curling up at the edge here.” Margo tried to push Michael’s photograph down with a short fingernail, but it kept popping up. “It won’t stay down. Something’s underneath.” Picking at the picture, she peeled it back and slowly revealed a photo of a smiling white-haired man. “Who is
—?” Margo gasped. “Sergio!”

  How could that be? Anna’s mind reeled.

  Margo removed Sergio’s photograph, bringing it close to her face before examining the back, covered in tiny, bold printing.

  “What does it say?”

  “To Missie, Love Silver.”

  “The two dolphins, swimming away together in that Italian song? Did Angela and Sergio plan a getaway, and then he got murdered? Whose ba—?”

  “Angela was innocent. How could this have happened right under my nose?”

  Anna turned away in distaste. She didn’t want to guess how many bodies Sergio’s gnarled hands had touched. She doubted he would have run away with any one woman in particular. Their interlude in Milan had probably overlapped with Angela’s affair. Maybe they had been seeing each other for years. Anna had hit bottom after Jack and his model. What was Angela’s excuse? Happily married to a loving husband and living on her Texas ranch—how had she succumbed to Sergio? What a bastard, she thought, frowning. Surely many women would have wanted him dead.

  “Promise me,” Margo said. “We can’t let Michael know. It’d break his heart. And not Biondi either, that pompous, controlling little man. He’ll never find the murderer, anyway, just like the police couldn’t find the killer of Alessandro’s family in all these years. I don’t want Angela’s name to be ruined, let alone hurt everyone who loves her.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Anna said. “Biondi and I are hardly on speaking terms.”

  In the Shadow of the Doge

  Sunday, late afternoon

  When Margo pressed the bell, her hand brushed against a velvety cluster of flowers bursting from a cavity in the bricks. Tiny stars sparkled amid green, leafy tears.