Chapter Four #2
“I want to apologize to you for the behavior of Investigator Figliomeni,” Sonia said. “It was inexcusable. We’d like to start over. Can we do that?”
The young woman was thin and pale, with long, stringy blonde hair streaked with blood.
Her eyes were a translucent grey, with brows so light as to be nearly invisible—giving the impression of perpetual astonishment.
She was puffy with crying, forehead and cheeks patchy.
A small downy feather had settled on her shirt.
She stared at Nikki.
“Are you Nikki Serafino?”
She had a gently twanging American accent.
Nikki handed over her Phoenix Seven identification card, and Monica examined it, fingers trembling. She took a deep breath, and the tears started.
“I was supposed to wait for you,” she said.
—
“Tell us about yourself,” said Sonia. “What are you doing in Naples?”
“Um…Kami and I just graduated from college…Texas A to witness it an intimate invasion.
At last, she turned to the image.
The woman was young—brown cheeks full, soft lips parted as if in surprise. There was blood on her face, and small soft white feathers, like a wounded bird.
“Do you recognize this woman?” Sonia asked.
Monica’s already pink face reddened.
“No,” she said, and squeezed her eyes shut.
Sonia nodded and leaned forward on the table. “The knife,” she said. “Did you happen to see the knife?”
“I don’t know,” said Monica. She passed a hand across her face.
“We found the knife,” Sonia continued. “It was by the altar in the chapel—far from the body. There were marks on the floor. We think somebody threw it. Was it you?”
“I don’t remember,” Monica said. She seemed dazed, eyes focused on some distant point.
“You didn’t throw it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your prints were on the knife,” said Sonia. “So, we know you held it.”
Some light seemed to blink out behind those clear eyes. Monica rested her head in her hands and spoke to the ground. “I don’t know.”
They stayed in the interview room for another hour, but Monica provided nothing else.
—
Monica’s friend and travel companion, Kami Washington, was more expressive. Despite the hours alone in an interview room, she was alert. Anger seemed to assert and sort her thoughts, a fuel of injured justice.
“We were the good guys!” she shouted. “You can’t treat us like suspects. We were the fucking heroes. You need to catch the motherfucker who did this. You hear? You need to fucking catch that guy.”
“Was it a man?” asked Sonia. “Did you see the person who stabbed her?”
Kami was emphatic. “He was long gone by the time we got there. It was a figure of speech, you know? The guy?”
She told the same story as Monica—about hearing a noise and investigating, about finding the stabbed woman, and administering first aid. But there were places where the story diverged.
“She definitely said something. It was like Gerd or Greed, or something. You’ll have to ask Monica.”
She also remembered the knife.
“Oh yeah,” she said. “Monica threw it really hard.”
—
Afterwards, Emilio and Sonia and Nikki talked it over.
“Do you think she really doesn’t remember picking up the knife?” Emilio asked.
Sonia shrugged. “It was an intense and traumatizing moment. Sometimes people forget.”
“I hate to admit it,” said Emilio, “but I’m inclined to agree with Angelo. They’re lying. We should keep them in custody.”
Sonia turned to Nikki. “What do you think?”
“Not lying,” she answered. “Or, at least, not exactly. I don’t get the sense that they’re a threat—but they aren’t telling us everything.”
Sonia pressed fingers to her lips. “So, you don’t think we should keep them?”
“I’d prefer you didn’t,” Nikki said. “The ambassador is on his way back to Italy and this could become a political headache if you put them in jail. I think it would be a gesture of goodwill if you let the American attaché take charge of them.”
Sonia nodded. “I don’t think they were directly responsible for the assault. But we need to push on their stories. Once they surrender their passports, they’re free to go—but tell them not to go far.”
—
The sun was rising over the city, the air chilly and damp as Nikki rode her Hornet the short distance to her flat.
Hours ago, the empty nighttime streets had given her a clear path to the station.
Now, under the grey glow of a cloudy sky, the roads were chaotic and crowded.
She maneuvered around it all, brain sluggish, the residual thrumming energy from the nighttime coffee insufficient to focus her.
The interviews seemed to have recorded badly in her tired mind. Memories juddered and stalled, replaying unimportant details: mascara smudged beneath Kami Washington’s eyes, and Monica Lissom’s hands, nails bitten to the quick.
—
Nikki kept her bike in a tiny spot in the alley behind a nearby jewelry store, the privilege for which she paid a monthly fee to the owner. Carefully, she maneuvered the Hornet into its place, then walked the few blocks home.
The door in the large metal gate wasn’t secured. It creaked wide open and she stomped into the bare space, glancing briefly at the old chapel in the courtyard with its chipped stone cherubs before heading up the steep concrete stairs.
—
Arriving on the landing, she heard the shuffle of steps, the muttering, the dull scratch of metal. A figure stood at her door, trying a key in the lock. Nikki paused, heart suddenly loud in her ears, watching someone try to break into her house.
A moment later, she realized the truth.
“Massimo?” she called.
The old man’s back was to her—the peculiar erectness of his posture a contrast to the disheveled appearance: white hair mussed, a flattened tangle at the back of his head. He wore a threadbare cardigan, wrinkled slacks, and leather loafers tight on swollen feet.
Nikki cleared her throat, and called his name again. But still he startled when he turned and stared, rheumy eyes drooping and tired.
“The key doesn’t work,” he said.
In the decades before Nikki inherited the flat from her mother, Massimo had managed the property. He’d been a fixture in her childhood, and memory showed him as a stylish playboy, a fashionable woman always on his arm. That memory seemed cruel now—a contrast to this quavering form.
Massimo’s face was pale and sweating. His hands had lost their elegant definition and strength. They were gnarled, spotted, gripping the jangling key ring.
“Massimo?” Nikki said again.
At her voice, he seemed to relax.
“Oh, Beatrice,” he said. “I’m glad you came. I got the signal. Last-minute visitors and the place isn’t ready.”
“It’s Nikki, not Beatrice,” she said gently. “That key won’t work. I changed the lock. What are you doing here?”
Massimo returned to his task, fumbling through the keys.
“It’s here somewhere,” he muttered.
“I’ve got it,” said Nikki. She unlocked the door, and guided Massimo through to the living room, settling him on the sofa.
“I’ll get you water,” she said.
—
In the kitchen, standing at the tap, she checked her watch: 06:49.
She badly wanted sleep, but she couldn’t abandon Massimo. She’d never seen him in this condition. He was usually sharp—ready with a quip or a compliment.
She dialed her father’s number.
—
Raoul Serafino was an early bird—a habit left over from his military career. He answered on the second ring, voice clear and resonant. She imagined him on the porch in Benevento, sipping coffee.
“Ciao, bella.”
That voice, frigid and formal, had softened with age.
“Massimo Fattore’s at my house,” she told him. “He was trying to use his old key to get in. He’s confused; I think he’s sick…he thought I was Mom.”
Raoul made a low noise. “Where is he now?”
“In the living room. I think he needs to go to hospital. Do you have a number for his family?”
“I have the number for Stefania, his niece. Tell me more. What did he say?”
“He looks awful. He’s shaking. He said something about a signal.”
Raoul grunted again. “Sounds like low blood sugar from his diabetes. Give him juice—and I’ll call Stefania.”
—
Nikki poured orange juice.
Carrying the cold glass to the living room, she stopped, taking in the unexpected disorder.
During her short time away, chaos had erupted.
The coffee table was upended, papers strewn across the floor. Massimo was pushing on the sofa, the rug beneath rippling and bunching.
“Hey! Hey! What are you doing? Massimo!”
His arm was slick with sweat as she tugged him away and helped him sit. His movements were sloppy, uncoordinated.
“We have to warn Adriano!” he pleaded. “We have to warn him!”
At the name, Nikki froze. She remembered her nightmares in the early hours of the morning, the anguished sense of missing her brother. Today was the bitter anniversary of Adriano’s death, and the world was that much darker.
“Adriano’s gone,” she said.
She pressed the glass into his trembling hands. “Drink this.”
Childlike, he complied, a shudder across his fragile shoulders.
Gradually, Massimo’s breathing became less labored, color returned to his cheeks, and his hands stopped shaking. His face lost its sheen of sweat.
“Grazie, bella,” he said. “Grazie.”