Nighthawks

by Lambert Nagle

  They were due to sit down with a forensic accountant tomorrow to try to unravel the web of offshore companies and trace the money flowing in and out of numbered bank accounts.

  As he was hurrying home to snatch a few hours sleep his phone went. It was McCarthy. He berated himself.

  ‘Connor here. I’m so sorry. I meant to call you.’ He’d sounded sincere, he knew that, but still, it was a poor excuse. Stephen could barely bring himself to ask. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Joe’s men came back.’

  ‘Did they hurt you?’ Stephen said.

  ‘No, but they beat up a frail old man.’

  ‘What’s the connection?’ Stephen asked, hoping he hadn’t sounded too inquisitorial.

  ‘Franco had been restoring a painting for me. When he couldn’t produce it, they hooded him, tied him up and trashed his studio. He told them that I’d already picked it up. But it didn’t stop them.’

  Joe’s men beat up an old, defenceless man who they knew didn’t have what they wanted, just so they could demonstrate to McCarthy what they were capable of?

  Stephen hesitated. ‘And Franco. Is he going to make it?’

  ‘He’s severely traumatised. He was due to retire this week, after sixty years in the business. There was even a little party planned.’

  ‘Joe used Franco to intimidate you. But they left you alone.’

  ’That’s just it. They didn’t lay a finger on me, even when I said I didn’t have it,’ McCarthy said, sounding weary. ‘In the end, I told them the truth. I didn’t have a choice.’

  What was McCarthy not telling him?

  ‘They’ve given me until the end of the week to produce it.’

  ‘It was the gift given to you by the grateful parishioner?’

  McCarthy started to wheeze.

  Stephen jumped back to the last conversation he’d had with him after the robbery. Bruno hadn’t just stolen money off McCarthy—he’d been stupid enough to steal something which Giuseppe had given McCarthy and which Joe wanted back.

  ‘It wasn’t just your wallet Bruno mugged you for, was it?’

  ‘If he’d known it was a painting he’d have left it. He just picked it up and ran.’

  ‘Where’s Bruno now? And what did he do with it?’

  ‘Sold it to buy drugs. He's in a coma in ICU.’

  ‘Which hospital?’ Stephen grabbed his things and prepared to race out the door. ‘And remind me of the kid’s surname.’

  ‘Bruno Bianca. He’s in Gemelli.’

  Stephen did a search on his phone for the address as he jogged along.

  ‘And Joe’s men know this?’

  ‘I only told them because I know he might never wake up,’ McCarthy said, sadly.

  ‘We’ll give him police protection. And nobody will be allowed to breathe a word about his recovery to anyone. Not even relatives.’

  ‘He doesn’t have any. He was abandoned as a baby. Nobody wanted him. Been in and out of care homes ever since,’ McCarthy said, his voice cracking up under the strain.

  McCarthy was as vulnerable as the kid.

  ‘I’ll speak to a colleague to sort out a safe house for you,’ he said. Renzo owned him one. He could do it.

  ‘I’m too old to be constantly on the move, always looking over my shoulder.’

  ‘We’ll do everything we can to stop Joe harassing you.’

  ‘You concentrate on Bruno. I’m moving out. Joe wants the apartment back,’ McCarthy said. His breath was uneven and he started gasping. ‘I’m sorry, excuse me a moment.’ Stephen heard the sound of McCarthy puffing on his asthma inhaler.

  He was planning to move out? He hadn’t mentioned that before.

  ‘I’ll call you once I’ve seen to Bruno. Before I forget, send me the details of the painting will you? I’ll talk to you soon,’ he said, hanging up.

  Stephen was directed to the High Dependency Unit, where Bruno had been moved. The ward manager was professional and polite, but he got the impression that she wasn’t particularly happy that he had showed up in her hospital. There was an air of calm and order. It felt as though the unit was shut off from the outside world, a cocoon where all that mattered was the patient.

  ‘As you’ll see, he isn’t allowed any visitors. Not even from the carabinieri,’ she said, looking him up and down.

  ‘I’m not here to disturb him. I’m here about his security.’

  ‘Lieutenant Connor, if anyone did turn up here waiting for him to recover, they’d have a long wait. He can’t breathe unassisted and will need oxygen for the rest of his life. And we have perfectly adequate security here at night.’

  She wasn’t budging.

  ‘Let me call my department and see what we can come up with,’ Stephen said.

  ‘As you wish,’ the ward manager said. ‘You can sit in my office while I do my rounds. If you need me, I’ll be at the nurses’ station,’ she said, with a nod. He watched her walk off down the long corridor, the sound of her shoes receding into the distance.

  He called Renzo. No answer. ‘Ring me as soon as you get this, will you. It’s urgent.’ Then he tried Elisabetta.

  ‘Joe sent the heavy mob. They beat up an elderly man who was working on one of McCarthy’s paintings. Now they have that junkie kid we picked up in their sights.’

  ‘What’s the kid done now?’ Elisabetta said.

  ‘Stole the painting, then went and bought drugs with the proceeds and overdosed. I’m at the hospital where he’s in a coma. And the moment he wakes up, Joe’s men will be round here like a shot.’

  ‘Whatever you need, Stephen. I’ll square it with Alberti.’

  ‘We should be able to manage with two officers. The ward manager stressed that their night security team is up to the job. It’s McCarthy I’m worried about,’ Stephen said.

  ‘Get Renzo on it. He might be able to persuade him.’

  ‘I tried but he hasn’t got back to me.’

  ‘What’s he playing at?’ Elisabetta said. ‘McCarthy can stay in a hotel for the night and we can sort out protection for him tomorrow. I’ll kill Renzo when I see him.’

  ‘Not if I get to him first,’ Stephen said.

  He called McCarthy, who was slow to pick up.

  ‘I’m still at the hospital. They’ve moved Bruno out of ICU. I’ll be done here in twenty minutes. I could meet you. We want to put you in a hotel for the night while we put measures in place to keep Joe away from you,’ Stephen said.

  There was silence at the other end.

  ‘Don’t come here,’ McCarthy said eventually. ‘Joe knows who you are.’

  McCarthy seemed to have little regard for his own life. It was always others he wanted to protect first. He tried another tack.

  ‘We can work out where Bruno went, who he might have met. The painting can’t be far away,’ Stephen offered. ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘A Renaissance scene of St Jerome removing a thorn from a lion’s paw. It’s around seventy by seventy centimetres with a heavy frame.’

  Stephen jotted this down.

  ‘Can you send me a photo?’ He was matter of fact, taking down notes when McCarthy cleared his throat.

  ‘Should something happen to me and you do find it, don’t judge a book by its cover. It’s what’s on the inside that counts,’ he said, before hanging up.

  Stephen sat up. Whatever did he mean? Just then, the ward manager came back into her office, glaring at him, as though he’d outstayed his welcome.

  On his way home after leaving the hospital, it struck him that McCarthy might have been referring to himself, when he’d made that reference to judging by appearances. What had McCarthy done? Did he know something about Joe that made him a target?

  He looked at his watch and counted back six hours. It was still office hours in Boston. Cormac Hannigan might still be at work. He scrolled through his contacts list.

  ‘Stephen, good to hear from you. I was about to call you.’ Hannigan’s tone was warm, welcoming in fact. ‘Planning a
return trip to Boston?’

  ‘I wish. Joe Russo is in Rome and he seems to have McCarthy in his sights. Why would a priest fall foul of a mafia boss? Unless he was an informer.’

  ‘We’re wondering that here too. I couldn’t tell you in front of Fitzgerald, when you came to visit but we got an anonymous tip-off about the death of Joe’s brother. I’ve been working on the cold case. We’ve been wanting to talk to McCarthy for months now, pleading with him to come back here to go over his statement. But he won’t. He’ll only talk on the condition I come to him. He’s terrified that the moment he lands in Boston, Joe will find out,’ Hannigan said. ‘I’m planning to fly over to Rome to interview him in the next day or two.’

  ‘Whatever support you need, I’m here,’ Stephen said. ‘Let me take you out for a beer, at least.’

  ‘I’d like that. Be in touch.’

  Sleep evaded him that night. Why was McCarthy being so cagey? Had Russo senior used the painting to hide some dirt about his youngest son? Or was there a message hidden in the painting itself?

  McCarthy’s theory that Bruno didn’t know what it was he’d stolen seemed likely, especially if he was high at the time. From his memory of him, the kid’s arms were like twigs. Bruno was a flight animal, motivated by fear, desperate to get his next fix. He must have offloaded the painting for cash to buy drugs. But who in his list of street dealer contacts would be interested in a painting?

  And then it hit him. The hoodie who knocked over McCarthy after their lunch got into a black four-wheel-drive, which could have been Hurst’s. Then the kid has to go and bite the hand that fed his drug habit, by stealing the painting from under Joe’s nose. No wonder they couldn’t wait for him to wake up. Stephen drew a two-kilometre circle around McCarthy’s apartment and vowed to cover every street and every building, even if he had to do it on his own.

  Chapter 21

  At 8.30 a.m. the next morning, on via Acciaioli, the shopkeeper at Flog It! was busy slapping stickers in his shop window:

  Everything Must Go, Last Chance Sale, It’s a Steal!

  He was calling it quits because he was up for a lease renewal and his greedy landlord had doubled the rent. When he’d try to haggle with him the guy wasn’t interested.

  ’I can get Ferragamo and Chanel, in here, you know. Businesses prepared to pay a market rent.’

  The shopkeeper had laughed in his face.

  ‘You’d better get rid of the rats in the basement first. Otherwise they’ll chew through every handbag in the shop and wash them down with perfume.’

  It had been a busy week. All that was left were a few items, including the stupid painting he’d bought off that kid, which he now regretted. Still, the frame alone was worth more than a hundred euros, if only he could have persuaded someone to buy it.

  On his last day, he loaded up his van and headed home.

  ‘Can you find a place in the house for this,’ he offered, showing his wife the painting of St Jerome.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Why would I want a holy picture on my wall? All that priest could do when we got married was stare at my stomach.’

  ‘You were up the duff.’

  ‘Well who’s fault was that? Why don’t you offer that painting as a prize for the tombola? Then the old ladies won’t nag you for money for the restoration of the church fresco again.’

  ‘Okay, why not,’ the shopkeeper said, glad to get rid of the painting. If the kid had nicked it, and he was certain that he had, there’d be no comeback.

  Boston, USA

  * * *

  Joe Russo opened the front door quietly, not wanting to wake the sleeping household. He yawned. He’d managed some shut eye on the flight from Rome, but he was glad to be home. He was about to take a shower when he saw light shining from underneath a bedroom door.

  ‘Good morning, sweetie,’ he called as he pushed the door open gently. An angel with dark wavy hair and long eyelashes was sitting at her desk, busy with her crayons. He loved the way her little face scrunched up when she was concentrating and the way the curls around her face made her look like that actress in the movie about the little girl who fell off her horse.

  ‘Daddy.’ Mollie came running up with her gap-toothed smile and hugged him. He picked her up and swung her round.

  ‘I did a picture for you,’ Mollie said.

  ‘Do you want to show me?’ The little girl nodded her head vigorously as Joe lowered her to the floor. She took his hand and led him over to her desk.

  ‘Let’s take a look,’ Joe said.

  Mollie picked up the drawing she’d been working on and handed it to her father.

  ‘It’s not finished,’ she said solemnly.

  Expecting to see the latest Disney princess, Joe stopped and stared. His kid had done this?

  A man, standing on the left of the picture was dressed in a black wide-brimmed hat and a black cloak. Round his neck was a white collar, that reminded Joe of those cones that the dog had to wear when it came back from the vet. To the right of the man was a seated woman, wearing a long ugly black dress and another dog cone around her neck.

  ‘They have this kind of stuff in school books these days?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Things sure have changed since I was a kid.’

  ‘No Daddy. It’s a picture of a picture,’ Mollie said, shaking her head.

  ‘That’s great honey. It’s a cute drawing. It looks like something from way back when.’

  Mollie shrugged. ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Shall we show Mommy?’

  ‘Okay, Daddy.’

  A woman’s voice called from downstairs.

  ‘Anyone ready for pancakes?’

  ‘Me,’ Mollie called back.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Joe said, taking Mollie’s hand. As they made their way down the stairs, the little girl jumped onto each step.

  As they were finishing up breakfast, Joe turned to Mollie.

  ‘You go play, honey, while me and Mommy plan what we’re going to do today.’

  Mollie swung round on her bar stool and got down from the breakfast bar and skipped out the door. As soon as she’d gone, Joe pulled out her drawing.

  ‘You seen this,’ he said turning to Carmela.

  She took a cursory glance at it.

  ‘Aww. Cute.’

  ‘Notice anything?’

  Carmela leaned over and took another look. ‘It’s a kid’s drawing. Kids have wild imaginations at that age.’

  ‘Because it looks kind of old to me. Who dresses like that now?’

  ‘They went on a school trip to the Museum of Fine Arts and she drew what they saw.’ Carmela turned the paper around. ‘I think it’s the Pilgrim Fathers on the Mayflower.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll take it back up to her.’ Joe kissed Carmela on the forehead, grabbed the picture and took it upstairs where Mollie was still drawing.

  She was using crayons to draw a ship, with what looked like a wooden mast. She put the brown crayon down and picked up a grey one and started to fill in grey circles above it.

  ‘We saw a ship like that down in the harbour. You remember what they’re called?’

  Mollie squirmed in her seat. ‘Tea Party ship?’

  ‘Yep, that’s right. Did you go with school?’

  ‘Yes, Daddy. And to the museum.’

  ‘You saw a picture of a ship?’

  Mollie nodded vigorously. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Where?’ Joe asked.

  Mollie looked at him like he was stupid. ‘In the cave, silly.’ The kid certainly did have an active imagination. Maybe when she said the word “cave,” she’d meant museum?

  ‘Does anyone else know about the cave?’

  Mollie shook her head, got up from her drawing and went over to Joe for a hug.

  ‘Grandpa did,’ she whispered. ‘I miss him, daddy.’

  ‘I miss him too, honey. Maybe we could go look in the cave together. Is it in Grandpa’s house?’

  Mollie shook her head vigorously.<
br />
  ‘Nope. Not there. And Grandpa said nobody was allowed in except me.’

  ‘Hmm, okay. It can’t be too far away. How about a game of I-Spy and if I guess I can stand outside while you go in?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mollie said emphatically.

  Joe smiled indulgently.

  ‘You have to close your eyes and count to ten and come and find me,’ Mollie said. And in a fit of giggles, she rushed out of the room. Joe heard her soft footsteps fade away.

  What had the old bastard been up to, creating some kind of hiding place in his son’s house, behind his back?

  ‘Five, four, three, two one. Coming. Ready or not,’ he said. He walked first into the family bathroom. No luck in there. Then he glanced into Carmela’s dressing room. The door to the walk-in closet was ajar. He peeked in. Mollie liked to hide among her mother’s shoes and dresses, but she wasn’t there today.

  He came back onto the landing and tried the next room, a guest bedroom, one they hardly ever used. He listened. A high-pitch giggle came from somewhere inside the wall.

  ‘Am I cold, am I warm, or am I hot, Mollie?’ he called.

  ‘I think you’re warm, Daddy,’ came the reply. Joe opened the closet door. It was half-full, clothes and shoes neatly stacked. Nothing stood out. Yet, Mollie was nowhere to be seen. His bare feet trod on something sharp. He winced, then bent down to retrieve the item and picked up a pink hair clip. As he was bending down, he saw that the clothes had been pushed aside at the back of the closet. On his knees now he shuffled over to take a closer look. He ran his hands along the back of the wall and traced the outline of a door, the height and size to allow a six-year-old child to crawl through.

  He thought back to all the times Grandpa had offered to babysit while he and Carmela went out on the town. The cunning piece of shit must have been working on it for years.

  ‘I’m coming to get you,’ Joe called. ‘Can you open the door for Daddy?’

  There was a scuffle and then a beaming Mollie appeared at the tiny doorway. Joe would have to lie on his front just to peer inside.