Chapter Four
Four
Again and again, her mind dragged her back to those furious moments of the assault, replaying the fear and rage—the way he’d used his size and strength to clamp her arms to her sides, hoisting her off the ground.
She wished De Rosa hadn’t interfered. She was relieved when the attack stopped—of course she was!
But the abrupt end left her with an unsettled sensation—like a half-finished melody.
She needed to know for certain that she could have fended off the bastard on her own. That was simply unknowable now.
At home, she punched and kicked the bag until she was dripping with sweat, too tired to continue.
It was nearly midnight when she showered and collapsed into bed.
She awoke too soon with a churning fear, and a dread of reentering her dreams. She got up, switched on the lights, and went to the kitchen.
—
There was a time long ago when nightmares like this had been persistent—in the months after Adriano’s death.
Awake, the knowledge of his loss wrapped around her like a blanket, an inescapable smothering reality.
But in sleep, she sometimes forgot her brother was gone, and her mind would work out a thousand ways to rescue him from the bullet.
It always found him, and she woke herself screaming.
For a while, she’d stayed with Aunt Izzy and Uncle Preston in their small London flat, and was mortified on the nights she woke them, too. They were always kind about it—turning on the lights, and Izzy would heat water for tea and play a cassette tape, some soothing melody of Brahms or Elgar.
“There,” she’d say, handing Nikki a mug of hot chamomile. “Therapy in a cup.”
For his part, Preston would eat chocolates from a box, and discuss some passage he was teaching in class that week, excavating Shakespeare for advice.
“ ‘Give sorrow words,’ ” he told her. “ ‘The grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.’ ”
But Nikki wasn’t good with words and couldn’t ever describe the feeling of wrongness. The brightness of her brother had left the world. Her love for him had lost its place to rest.
—
Nikki heated water. The soft floral notes of the chamomile comforted her, and the ugly feelings that had surged like the tide over a seawall began, gradually, to recede.
She was growing tired again, the stark clarity and terror of her dreams dipping below waves of fatigue.
Finishing the tea, she was returning to bed when the phone rang: a call from the Phoenix Seven duty line.
She answered, recognizing the nasal tone of Romano, the youngest investigator in Phoenix Seven: “Angelo needs you to come to police HQ.”
“It’s the middle of the night,” she protested. “I’m not on duty.”
“You have to,” he insisted. “The police say it has to be you.”
“Can it wait till morning?”
“They need you now.”
—
Police HQ was brightly lit, giving the illusion of daytime in those windowless, high-ceilinged corridors. Nikki showed her Phoenix Seven ID card to the night guard, who called for an escort.
The plainclothes officer who came to meet her was Emilio, a nice-looking man with a fit body, thick hair, and a neatly trimmed beard.
“Ciao, Nikki.”
“Emilio! I didn’t expect you!”
The words sounded more severe than she’d intended.
Emilio was a homicide detective she had met last summer while working the Markham case.
That he was here meant the situation wasn’t the usual drunk American sailor making a scene in a downtown bar, or a traffic incident.
A knot of dread coalesced in Nikki’s stomach.
She wanted to run…to get far away. She’d had enough of death.
Emilio moved in with a handshake and apologetic smile. “Sorry to drag you out of bed.”
“No problem,” she said, then urged her feet to follow. They walked together down a long corridor with chipped tile and yellowed paint. Bright lights buzzed overhead.
Absent the usual bustle, the place felt desolate.
“Stabbing death in Chiesa del Gesù Nuovo just after the eight o’clock mass,” he told her.
“Victim was a twentysomething woman. Nobody saw the stabbing, but three bystanders tried to administer first aid. They fucked up the crime scene. The only prints we could pull off the knife were from our good Samaritan.”
“Was the victim American?” Nikki asked. The police only called Phoenix Seven in situations involving personnel associated with the US military.
“Don’t know yet,” he said. “She didn’t have ID, and none of the witnesses recognized her.
But one of the helpers—the one with the prints—is Monica Lissom.
She’s got an important father: Paul Lissom is the United States ambassador to Italy.
He and his wife are in the US right now, but he’s sent his defense attaché down from Rome, and told Monica not to cooperate with us unless you’re involved. ”
Nikki’s thoughts seemed to tangle in heavy clumps.
“How does the United States ambassador know who I am?” she asked.
Emilio shrugged. “They didn’t say. Anyway, we called Phoenix Seven and asked for you. But two of your guys came instead. They’ve stepped in this one pretty bad, and our witnesses won’t talk.”
—
They’d reached the end of a corridor. Emilio pushed the door wide and they were drowned in a torrent of competing conversations.
—
Carving a path with Emilio through the clusters of uniformed men and women, Nikki spotted the tall and sober detective Sonia Dieng.
She was speaking with a man in a dark blue uniform whom Nikki guessed was the US attaché.
His posture was rigid, his jaw set, and he spoke English with a harsh American accent: “The ambassador isn’t asking for special treatment. He’s asking for respect.”
“Unfortunately, we can’t release Ms. Lissom or Ms. Washington yet,” Sonia responded in a firm, even voice. “There’s a murderer on the streets tonight—someone bold enough to kill in a church, during mass. We need information as soon as possible.”
After the Markham case last summer, Nikki and Sonia had become friends. Outside work, the detective had an easy manner and biting sense of the absurd. Inside the office, however, Sonia was professional and humorless, a personality shift that jarred Nikki once she’d experienced the other side.
“It’s the middle of the night,” the attaché protested. “Are they under arrest?”
Sonia didn’t have a chance to reply.
The door crashed open and a voice bellowed in Italian: “What the fuck were you thinking?”
Conversations stopped as everyone turned to look.
Nikki almost didn’t recognize her friend, undercover police officer Capo Valerio Alfieri.
He wore a nice shirt, slacks, and stylish leather shoes—a departure from his usual scuffed trainers and slouchy sweatshirts.
But these clothes were wet and disheveled, the right sleeve of his shirt smeared with blood.
He was upset, breathing hard. Seeming not to notice anyone else, he bore down on a balding man in a polo shirt: Angelo Figliomeni, Nikki’s boss and the supervisor of Phoenix Seven.
“You’re supposed to liaise, to translate…you’re supposed to assist,” Valerio yelled. “Instead, you played cop and threw your weight around!”
Angelo grimaced. He glanced around as if looking for support. “The girl is lying. Anyone can see that she’s lying.”
“Are you really that stupid? They’re witnesses, not suspects! They’re in shock!”
“You don’t know Americans.” Angelo emphasized the words with both hands. “I have a cultural understanding you’re blind to. You should trust my judgment.”
“Your judgment?” Valerio scoffed. “Your judgment means that the witnesses aren’t talking now—that we’re further behind than when we started. It means that the Americans have a legitimate complaint against the police.”
Angelo was unrepentant. “Let me deal with the Americans.”
“Oh, I think you’ve done quite enough!”
Navigating the crowd, Sonia stepped between the two men.
“Thank you for your assistance,” she told Angelo. “We’ll take it from here.”
Angelo seemed to hesitate, glancing between Sonia and Valerio.
Valerio stalked away, slamming back out through the door.
—
Nikki had never known Valerio to burn hot. In their years of friendship, she’d relied on him to be calm and reasonable. She took a step to follow, but the movement caught Angelo’s attention.
He pointed at her. “There you are!”
Then he gestured to Romano at his side. “You. Go get the car.”
Then, back at Nikki: “Where the hell have you been?”
“I’m here now,” Nikki said evenly.
“Alright!” He straightened his shirt, squared his shoulders. “I’m leaving. I’ll see you on the morning shift.”
Nikki pushed back. “I can’t work the morning shift now. I haven’t slept.”
“You need to take your work responsibilities seriously!” he barked. He seemed to vibrate with fury.
Sonia’s calm voice broke across them. “I expect we’ll need Investigator Serafino for the next few hours. I’d appreciate it if you adjust your schedule.”
Like an attack dog changing targets, he turned on the detective, eyes bright and feral.
“I manage my teams!” he bellowed. “I’m the supervisor. Not you!”
Sonia’s expression, always unreadable, hardened.
“Reconsider your approach, Investigator Figliomeni,” she said. The words were quiet and clipped. “The Polizia di Stato have a good working relationship with Phoenix Seven. Do not harm it now.”
Angelo stared back at Sonia, breathing heavily through his nose. She met his gaze.
“Your witness is lying,” he grumbled. “Know that your witness is lying.”
—
In the awkward silence after Angelo’s departure, Sonia greeted Nikki with her typical professionalism.
“Our witnesses are tired—but we need them to tell us what happened. The longer we wait, the less likely we are to catch our killer. Would you translate?”
—
The interview room wasn’t designed to be comfortable, but the police had clearly done what they could for Monica Lissom. She was wrapped in a blanket, and clasped a steaming cup.