Nighthawks

by Lambert Nagle

  ‘Leave them out of this.’

  ‘It’s too late for that. It’s up to you whether they have a roof over their heads or not. Are we ready?’ the muscle said. The seconds ticked by as one of the other men dealt the cards. Holding them close, the rookie glanced at his hand. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead. The muscle discarded three cards and picked three new ones off the deck. Renzo turned over his hand to reveal a queen, a jack, a ten and a nine of hearts.

  'It's your lucky day,' one of the card players said.

  The muscle smirked, throwing down an ace, king, queen, jack and ten of spades. Renzo sat there, unable to move.

  'What have I done?'

  'There, there,' the muscle said as he scooped up the money.

  'You got a problem. I got a solution.’ He turned to the others. ‘You lot, make yourselves scarce.' They nodded, grabbed their jackets and headed out the door.

  Naples, Italy

  At the so-called twenty-four-hour garage, the mechanic who had been called up in the middle of the night, swore down the phone at Stephen, before he could get so much as a word out.

  ‘Why couldn’t it wait until morning? You cops are all the same. You screwed up my night,’ he said, cutting Stephen off. Vittorio had refused to even get out of the tow truck, insisting the driver drop him off home, leaving Stephen well and truly stuck, waiting for the mechanic. The truck driver had unlocked the door but then shoved off. With no idea how long he’d have to wait, Stephen glanced around the repair workshop. It was divided into three: a repair bay sunk into the floor with room for two cars, an office to the side, and a holding area with tyres and three cars in various states of repair.

  As he was looking around his phone buzzed. He glanced down. Ginny.

  What the hell? Something must be up.

  She texted: Miss you. I’m in Milan on Friday. Meet up in Rome on the weekend?

  What was she doing, messing with his head like this? He’d convinced himself that her father would have persuaded her to call it off. He wanted to write back straight away but he was distracted by the sound of a key scraping in the lock. He looked up. Tucked away in the corner of the workshop was a Fiat of a style at least ten years old. The car was a dazzling metallic blue. He wasn’t a car-obsessive but he knew that model had never come in a shade like that. It had to be a respray. And as he walked over towards it, he wondered why, when the respray would cost more than the car was worth. A set of keys clanked, startling him as he turned round. The bleary-eyed mechanic was eyeing him suspiciously.

  ‘This better be good, getting me out in the middle of the night.’

  ‘I didn’t plan to be here at this time either. Get this done now and I’ll buy you a beer.’

  The mechanic shrugged.

  ‘A beer? I was getting down and dirty with the missus when you called.’

  ‘Mine just got in touch. It's been a month. I was texting her when you came in.’ Stephen looked down at his phone to avoid the look of scorn the mechanic was giving him after his blatant lie. ‘She lives in England.’

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘My girlfriend. We were meant to be getting married.’

  ‘It’s not all it’s cracked to be. Here, make yourself useful.’ The mechanic chucked over a form and a pen for Stephen to fill in.

  ‘Fill in where the incident happened and why.’

  ‘Will do. Mind if I have a look round while you sort out the car,’ Stephen said.

  ‘Help yourself. I’m just the monkey who works here.’

  ‘Know anything about that blue Fiat. Looks like it’s had a respray.’

  ‘Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. Who’s asking and what’s it worth?’

  It was 1.00 a.m. by the time Stephen delivered the repaired vehicle back to the Naples base. The duty officer was waiting with a message from Renzo.

  Comms recorded a conversation between Geppo Corri and a potential buyer. I left an audio file for you.

  ‘Thanks,’ Stephen said wearily, helping himself to a coffee before sitting himself down and listening to the tape.

  ‘I’m the buyer who lost out on eBay. Do you have anything else for sale that wasn’t advertised?’ the caller began. Stephen nearly fell off his chair. He knew that voice, he was sure of it. He called the duty officer over.

  ‘Does this guy pronounce his Italian a bit like me?’

  ‘More like an American.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Stephen turned up the volume so he could listen again. There was an unmistakable wheezing at the end of the sentence. He was ninety-five percent certain that Nosce te ipsum was none other than Michael McCarthy.

  Chapter 8

  Rome, Italy

  * * *

  As he sat waiting, Michael McCarthy was kicking himself. Why hadn’t he been firmer with that young art insurer?

  He was on one of his regular visits to Villa Giulia and had been discussing with a curator about the way the ancient Greeks worshipped figurines when he saw out of the corner of his eye the young Irishman hovering in the background, pretending to examine some little bronzes, like the ones in Geneva. Walsh had told him he was there on an art history course. Why he was a suitable candidate for a job as a fine art insurer, McCarthy didn’t understand, but if he’d passed the right exams, who was he to judge?

  He was at the back of the restaurant, not his usual table. Walsh had requested somewhere quiet where they could talk. Was he going to ambush him? He’d agreed to meet because he felt sorry for him: struggling with a new job in an unfamiliar city, playing catch-up with the language. Walsh been fishing for a personal tour of the galleries, but McCarthy had been firm, using his upcoming travels as a get-out clause. He’d rashly suggested lunch, forgetting that conversations over meals when there were only two of you could be awkward when you didn’t know each other. At least he had an excuse to leave early—his flight was that night and he hadn’t even started packing. He sat there trying and failing to quell his mounting anxiety about what was waiting for him on the other side of the Atlantic.

  The exit from the Metro at the Coliseum was packed with tourists, posing for selfies. Stephen pushed his way through the crowds towards the Monti neighbourhood. There was no logic to the higgledy-piggledy layout of these ancient Roman streets. His GPS struggled. And as he looked at his watch, he saw he was running late.

  He’d been at a crash course in art history with fellow police officers when he’d bumped into McCarthy and overheard him engrossed in a highbrow discussion about ancient art. McCarthy seemed to be the type who could talk to anyone—an art expert one minute, a layman, like him, the next. But even so, it was a stretch to go from discussing art in a gallery to dealing with shady types on eBay. And why would someone of McCarthy’s standing risk being caught with fakes or looted items?

  There it was, Trattoria via Panisperna.

  As Stephen strode into the restaurant his eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the change in light levels from the bright noonday sun to the darkened interior. He looked at his watch again. He was fifteen minutes late. He felt the colour rise from his neck to his cheeks. He looked around and hurried over, flustered, when he spotted McCarthy.

  ‘I got my timings wrong. Sorry.’

  McCarthy got out of his seat and grasped Stephen’s arm.

  ‘Good to see you. Welcome to my humble little local.’

  Once Stephen had sat down, a waiter came over with a basket of bread and a half litre carafe of red wine.

  ‘Anything you don’t eat? I forgot to ask. The chef usually brings me whatever he wants to cook that day,’ McCarthy said.

  ‘I’ll eat anything that’s put in front of me except for offal.’ As the wine glasses were filled, McCarthy spoke to the waiter, then when he’d gone, leaned forward.

  ‘The smell of liver and bacon frying on the hob takes me straight back to my childhood. Different times.’

  ‘My dad has a thing for liver. But Ma refused to cook it. She’d send him home to my grandma’s while we went to the chipper.’ As he
spoke about his mother, it occurred to Stephen that because Ireland was a small place, she might have heard via the Catholic grapevine of the priest from Cork who was high up in the Vatican. But was he brave enough to ask her, when all she would want to talk about was how his wedding plans were going?

  Stephen glanced down as the waiter slid a plate in front of him. There appeared to be a bone with a hole in the middle, oozing with fatty liquid, and sprinkled with parsley. It looked distinctly unappetising, but the aroma was Sunday roasts with Yorkshire pudding.

  ‘I grew up on bread and dripping,’ McCarthy said.

  Dripping. Ma swore by it for roast potatoes. This, he guessed, was bone marrow. He hadn’t the first clue how to eat it. He took his cue from his guest, who prised the marrow out with a deft flick of his fork.

  ‘‘My grandma fried tinned corn beef in dripping and then mashed it with potato and onions. Even washed out plastic bags and stuck them on the line.’ Stephen was trying too hard.

  As if on cue, McCarthy spoke.

  ‘We’re both a long way from Cork.’

  And we didn’t come here to talk about food memories.

  He was beginning to regret bringing the photos of Corri’s hoard with him. But it was too late now, he’d have to plough on, regardless.

  He waited until the waiter had cleared their plates.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Yes please. Even though I know there is some law against drinking cappuccino after lunch,’ Stephen said. He paused, told himself not to screw this up, and launched straight in.

  ‘A new client got in touch about insuring what to me looked like almost identical artworks to the bronzes at the auction. There’s some provenance, but it’s incomplete. And I can’t insure them until I know they’re genuine. I figured you might know someone who would help authenticate them. I hope you don’t mind me asking.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ McCarthy’s breath was wheezy. He took a puff on his inhaler. Had bringing up the bronzes caused his guest’s asthma? McCarthy shifted in his seat. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, as if in answer to Stephen’s unspoken question.

  Stephen slid over the photographs of the bronze figurines from Tony Sanzio’s crashed car.

  ‘I’m flattered you value my opinion. But I’m no expert.’

  Stephen begged to differ. And if he could read McCarthy’s body language correctly, he’d swear he flinched when he saw what they were. Then his face lit up and he seemed to come alive.

  ‘This one,’ McCarthy said, trying to contain his excitement as he pointed, ‘is a Dancing Lar, or Lars Familiaris, a protective deity or votive, if you like, that Romans liked to keep in their homes to ward off evil spirits. The green patination is the bronze oxidising, and looks to be even, as far as I can tell in this photograph. Could be first to second century AD. I have a number of these in my own humble little collection. And I’m always on the look-out for them.’

  ‘I’ve never had the house room to collect anything. What was it that got you interested? Stephen said, curious to understand what made McCarthy tick.

  ‘I started out with a pair like these—a gift from a grateful parishioner who wouldn’t take no for an answer. And it built from there. Of course, they weren’t worth anything like they are now.’ McCarthy’s pale neck started to redden.

  Perhaps McCarthy was an innocent collector. Or perhaps he was an addict, needing a constant fix, neither asking nor caring where the supply came from.

  ‘Could it be a fake?’

  ‘Unlikely. The patina is a sign of age but I’d have to have the object in front of me rather than a photograph. I’d question the point of faking something worth not more than two or three thousand euros.’

  A small-time crook could earn a living from selling those.

  ‘If there are just one or two, they might not be worth insuring.’ McCarthy looked Stephen in the eye.

  Your man was sharp.

  Stephen searched for a plausible response.

  ‘We’ll insure them as part of a collection, rather than individually.’

  As he said this, Michael McCarthy slid back the photographs to Stephen and in doing so glanced down at his watch.

  ‘I’m so sorry, but I have to go. Duty calls and I must go home to pack a bag. You know what it’s like flying to the States. They expect you to be there two hours early.’

  Stephen had been saving the eBay items he had bought off Geppo Corri until last. But from the reaction on McCarthy’s face to the photos of the deities, he had clearly touched a nerve. He seemed rattled. And what was that bit about “duty calls?” It didn’t sound like he was going on holiday.

  Stephen couldn’t afford to alienate McCarthy. It was going to be difficult enough to keep him on side, if he hadn’t blown it already.

  They said their goodbyes and Stephen got up and made his way towards the bathroom.

  McCarthy had left by the time he got back. Outside the restaurant, he saw McCarthy in the distance.

  As McCarthy was walking along, a tall, thin figure in a hoodie came running up behind him and ran into him, knocking him over. It looked deliberate. Stephen started running and gave chase. The assailant darted between passers-by and ran down a side-street.

  At the far end of the street, Stephen saw a black four-wheel-drive pull out and the mysterious figure hop in. He ran after it, but by the time he dashed between the long line of slow-moving traffic it had disappeared.

  By now McCarthy was nowhere to be seen. He made his way back to the restaurant, to check if he’d gone back there. He tried the front door but it was locked and the place was deserted. He tried phoning, but the call rang out. Was McCarthy hurt? If so, he could file a police report and Stephen’s testimony as a witness would have added weight to any investigation. Or had he put that one down to experience and gone home with nothing more than bruises, to get ready for his trip?

  Was Stephen the intended target and the mugger had made a mistake, assaulting the wrong man? No, given that the attacker had an accomplice, he was left with a lingering feeling that whoever was behind this might have been using McCarthy as a way of warning Stephen off.

  Michael McCarthy had picked himself up from the pavement. He’d suffered nothing more than a grazed hand and a few bruises. He patted his jacket pocket. He still had his wallet. What then was the point of assaulting him?

  When he got home, he rushed around, throwing his belongings into a suitcase. Once he was done, he took out Stephen Walsh’s card and turned it over. That business with the photographs. Was Walsh that ill-informed that he expected McCarthy to be able to tell whether they were fakes or the real thing from photos? Was he in fact who he said he was? He dialled the number. When a receptionist answered the phone, name-checking the company on the business card, McCarthy couldn’t help but be surprised. Mr Walsh was out of the office, but if he cared to leave a message, the receptionist would be sure to pass it on.

  ‘Please thank him for taking me to lunch, and I apologise if I appeared distracted. I’ll be sure to give him a call on my return.’ Now that Stephen’s story had checked out, initial suspicion had been replaced by an overwhelming sense of self-doubt. As he put the phone down, McCarthy felt guilty.

  Later that afternoon, Stephen was with Elisabetta, alone in the canteen, the last two stragglers waiting in line to collect their coffees.

  ‘Would you happen to have come across Monsignor Michael McCarthy?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘Of course. He used to be director of the Pio-Clementino, one of the Vatican museums. I don’t know the new guy at all. If McCarthy had still been there, I wouldn’t have had any trouble arranging a visit after hours. Why do you ask?’

  ‘It turns out the man I was making small talk with at the auction in Geneva was him. We were looking at the bronze figurines together. He passed himself off as an amateur collector. Why would he do that?’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t have a big ego. I don’t know. Why are you asking now?’

  ‘I wanted to see if he might know whether
the figurines Corri sold me were genuine or not. I’d tell him that a client was asking about getting them insured.’ Stephen said. He took a breath. ‘That’s if he deigns to speak to me again. I think I came across as someone who knows practically nothing about the subject matter.’

  ‘He’d be the one to tell you.’

  ‘And you would be okay with that?’

  ‘I don’t see anything wrong with it. In fact, he could be a useful contact. Just keep up the cover story, that’s all.’ Elisabetta said.

  Phew. ‘Okay, that’s good to know. You want me to cultivate him?’

  ‘The museum bought the suspect krater under his watch,’ Elisabetta said.

  ‘You don’t think McCarthy had anything to do with it, do you?’

  ‘What I think doesn’t matter.’

  She had a point.

  ‘If he lived and breathed art as he obviously does, why did he leave the job?’

  ‘The official line was that he retired. But it was all rather sudden,’ Elisabetta said. ‘I hadn’t really given it much thought before now.’

  ‘I looked on the Vatican website to see if I could find out anything about him but there was just a short biography and nothing else. Is that their usual style or could they be hushing something up?’ Stephen said.

  ‘I’ll give my contact there a call to see if he can throw some light on it. But in the meantime, befriend McCarthy. He could be useful,’ Elisabetta said.

  Stephen kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t going to risk telling her he already had.

  Chapter 9

  The day started badly. Alberti called a meeting, which Renzo had turned up from Naples to attend.

  ‘I’d like to introduce you to our latest hire,’ Alberti announced.

  Stephen looked at Elisabetta and mouthed, ‘Did you know?’